


When Events Conspire

by TarnishedArmour



Series: Life Happens [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A/U, EWE, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9652217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnishedArmour/pseuds/TarnishedArmour
Summary: Any series of events in one's life may intersect with another's.  What happens after that moment of meeting, well, that's called life.A continuation of It Wasn't Supposed to Happen Like This, looking a little more into the everyday lives of Hermione and Arthur as life happens...Non-squicky AW/HG, guaranteed!





	1. When the Party Ends...

**Author's Note:**

> Originally beta'd by AuntieL, who is wonderful and amazing and patient and whom I hope I can beg to continue the beta on this...eventually.
> 
> Originally on Granger Enchanted. *sniffle*
> 
> Disclaimer: Oh, if it were all mine, I'd be busy inventing house elves. As it is, JKR and many companies are paying taxes on their loot from this franchise. I...make nothing from this, so my tax burden is a percentage of said nothing.

Hermione smiled as the door closed behind Harry, his parting reminder of next week's Sunday brunch at The Burrow forcing her to nod, if only to keep from blurting out that she couldn't possibly go now that she was sleeping with Arthur. She knew it didn't make any sense to think that way, but she did.

Strong arms wrapped around her, Arthur's chest a convenient place to let her head rest. 

"Knut for your thoughts," he said, feeling her relax against him, pleased with how the breakfast had turned out, given the unexpected revelations.

Hermione shook her head, sighing. "If I say anything, it will come out wrong," she replied, "and..." She couldn't even bring herself to say it. She did not want to ruin a stressful morning that had ended up better than she had expected, but she did not want to keep silent either. As she thought about it, she realized how ironic it was: she did not want to keep silent about her desire _not_ to tell everyone else. Arthur leaned down, and it was his voice in her ear that made her reconsider.

"Are you ashamed, Hermione? Of what's happened between us? Or is it that your friends -- my children -- have found out?" That his soft voice could so gently gut her was also ironic: he would never hurt her, and yet his kindness hurt most of all.

"Not ashamed," she finally said. "Just...being selfish, I think. Everything is so new, and now that they know, it's not just between us. It's not just us, but them, too." Harry and Ron knowing was fine -- she knew more about their lives than their wives, probably, and she always had. Probably always would. No, it was Ginny and Lavender, two veteran gossips, and she could just picture the shock on the Weasley siblings' and wives' faces when the latest about Hermione was told. 

_"Oh, Bill, I saw Hermione today. Guess what? Dad is shacking up with her. Pass the potatoes, please," Ginny would say in her usual way._

_"Yeah," Lavender would add, "and she looked like a well-laid witch. Guess Arthur is pretty gifted. Then again, why else would there be seven of you if he were rubbish in the sack?" Veteran gossips always speculate, even when they shouldn't, of course._

_Bill, Charlie, and George would be suitably shocked and promptly invade, while the witches they had married would begin planning the wedding immediately, because It Was High Time Hermione Got Married._

No, that was untrue and unfounded. None of them would say or do such things, but it felt like it could happen. She changed the subject. 

"Lavender looks ready to pop," she said, changing to the safe topic of Weasley children. No matter what year it was, there was pretty much guaranteed to be a pregnant Weasley witch and at least one sprog running about.

Arthur stiffened briefly, stepped from behind her, and drew her over to the couch. Hermione settled beside him, picking up the sudden change in demeanor. Whatever was going through his head, well, it wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.

"Hermione, there is no easy way to ask this, but do you want children?"

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"Do you want to have children, to be a mother?" he asked, restating the question with slightly different phrasing. 

Hermione was still confused, and she didn't answer right away. "Why?" When she saw how he clenched his jaw, she clarified. "Why do you ask?"

He closed his eyes and took a breath, obviously holding on to his patience. "I have seven children, Hermione, now all grown and most, if not yet all, with children of their own. I am not interested in starting a second family, not at my age, and certainly not now." He would never stop counting Fred and Percy, even if they were gone. He was their father when they were alive, he was still their father now that they were dead, and that was the end of it.

"Oh! That makes sense then."

"And I have forgotten the Contraceptive Charm at least twice since that first night." He grimaced. “Including that night.” There was a reason he had seven children, after all. Every time one of his children married, he told him – at his daughter's wedding, he had told Harry, not Ginny -- that no matter how hot they were, there was always time to cast the Contraceptive Charm, yet here he was, confessing to forgetting his own advice at least thrice. It was a miracle she hadn't told him they were having triplets.

"You...didn't know, then? No, of course not," Hermione answered her own question. "If you had known, you wouldn't have asked. I can't have children, Arthur, so the Charm is useless." She took a breath, knowing he would ask, so she answered before he could. "Fifth year, at the Ministry, I was hit with a kind of slicing hex from Dolohov. The short version is that I have a chance of getting pregnant so low that it is essentially zero, and, even if I managed to get pregnant, I would never carry to term, or even past the second month."

"The scar on your abdomen," he said, looking at her eyes carefully as his shoulders visibly relaxed and the lines around his mouth and eyes eased. At her nod, he flashed a brief smile. "I love my family, Hermione, but I honestly never intended to have seven children. I don't regret having them, but stopping after two or three had been the plan Molly and I had."

"I take it that didn't quite work out," Hermione said facetiously.

Arthur snorted. "Let's just say I learned _why_ there is always time to cast the Contraceptive Charm, even when there isn't. And stop laughing," he added, grinning himself.

Hermione couldn't help it. She laughed at the image that popped to mind, one of a younger Arthur staring at his wand and saying, "I know you're only a stick with a magical core, but help a wizard out here!" as he got the news from Molly for the fifth time.

"I'll stop that mouth," he said, pulling her into his lap and kissing her soundly.

A few moments later, Hermione was ready to settle in for a good snog, but Arthur pulled back.

"You are a wicked witch," he murmured, brushing her unruly curls back from her face.

"Now that is an accusation I am prepared to refute," she returned, wondering if she should be insulted or happy. She decided on happy. She was, after all, happy with him. 

"Mm," he replied, dropping a kiss to her shoulder and changing the subject back to his original topic. "I know you cannot have children, but do you want them?"

Hermione looked up at him, her answer on her lips, then paused when she saw how serious he was. She answered in kind, her voice softly factual.

"I'll never feel life growing inside me, never be called 'Mum,' never know what it's like to hold my child. I'll never, ever be a mother, Arthur, and whether I want to be or not is irrelevant."

Arthur started to reply, thought the better of it, and simply sat there with her safe in the circle of his arms. After a few minutes, he spoke again. 

"Why did you say you were being selfish? Having others know changes nothing."

Hermione started to answer, then shook her head. "I guess not." She kissed his jaw and he turned her to straddle his legs. She was small enough and he tall enough that the way her legs folded under her raised her sufficiently to look in his eyes. He had beautiful eyes.

"I had plans for us this morning, witch, but you scarpered." He nuzzled her neck and she sighed happily, tilting her head to the side. Breakfast had turned in to extended coffee and conversation, so it was nearly noon.

"And what plans would those have been, Arthur? Did you want to go out?"

He chuckled softly against her skin and began to unbutton the blouse she had changed into between serving plates and coffee and eating breakfast. He had the notion that, had it only been herself, Ron, and Harry, she wouldn't have bothered, but the wives were there, so she took more care to be proper. But that was not pertinent to his task at hand.

"I had intended," he said, nipping her ear and kissing across her jaw, "to stay in." A subtle emphasis on the last word made her shiver, then her eyes widened. Did he just make a very naughty, very suggestive pun? It was a delicious thought, but at the same time...

"You want to... _now_ , Arthur?" she asked, unaccountably nervous. She shied back when she asked, and Arthur frowned slightly.

"What is it, Hermione?"

"I...There are...We just haven't..." Her tongue was tripping over itself. If tongues could trip, and it felt like hers could because it was getting help from both of her feet, which she was certain she had managed to stuff in her mouth the last few seconds.

Arthur smiled and kissed her again. "Our schedules have run us ragged lately. We've a long weekend, and no meetings for the next three days. Unless you're not interested?" he asked, leaning back to see her eyes. She had the most expressive eyes, especially when she was with only with one person. In a group or meeting, she wore a mask almost perfectly.

"It's not that," she insisted, biting her lip. "I'm not...pretty anymore." At his raised eyebrows, she explained. "The scar from Dolohov is the biggest, but there are dozens of others..." Her voice trailed off as her eyes grew dark with something he couldn't name. 

"Perfect skin isn't what makes a witch beautiful, love," he murmured, pulling her close. He moved back and kissed her again, opening her blouse, this time without her objections. He saw the first scar high on her neck, a gift from Bellatrix and one he had seen and kissed many times. He kissed it now. Another, on her shoulder, a hex scar from before the Battle of Hogwarts. He kissed it too. As he found and kissed each scar on her shoulders and above her breasts, he whispered, "Even scars can be beautiful, when they're honourable."

He kept kissing her scars. When he reached the hateful scar carved into her forearm, she tried to tug her arm from his grip, but he shook his head and kissed every letter, even the long trailing cut from where the "d" had been dragged under the word to add more emphasis to the spite of Bellatrix's actions. She held perfectly still; he moved on to another scar, this time on her bicep. After a few more minutes of this gentle worship, she worked the buttons on his shirt open, tugged off his undershirt, and began to do the same to him. 

She didn't notice that tears were falling from their eyes by the time she sank onto him in the light of day, making this the first time they weren't in the safety of their bed under the cover of night. Their soft sighs and moans and whispers didn't register in her conscious mind as they kissed and caressed one another. All she knew was that, when she felt him sliding deep, his magic held her as tightly as his arms, and her magic sparkled and danced around them.

Nothing else mattered. Not even the pleasure that left them gasping and trembling in its wake.

***

Sunday saw them ready to Apparate from the magically screened balcony of their apartment to The Burrow, both dressed properly with a change of clothes in Hermione's new handbag. Like her old beaded bag that had been relegated to her closet, this bag had been the recipient of several useful charms, among them an Undetectable Extension Charm. 

"Are you ready to face the thundering herd?" he asked, lips twitching at Hermione's insistence on being nervous.

"No," she replied. "We could stay here...in bed?" It was an offer that, any other day, he would most likely have accepted. She was pants at bribery, but she thought it was a worthwhile try.

Arthur chuckled, pulled her into his arms and spun on his heel, not letting her stall any longer than three changes of clothes, two too-lengthy discussions (her with herself, thankfully) of which shoes would be best, and an otherwise inexplicable inability to choose a change of clothes for the inevitable afternoon sports and child-created messes. Her startled yelp was enough to make him laugh heartily when they arrived in the wide front lawn near the vegetable patch. Hermione growled at him -- actually growled! -- and punched his arm. Unfortunately, that only made him chuckle longer, if more quietly, than he would have laughed.

Hermione was irritated at his unbridled optimism that everything would be fine. She was more irritated at his amusement when she couldn't make up her mind this morning, and this was just the last straw. She started to stalk off, but was stopped by his hand taking hers.

"Forgive me, love," he murmured, taking the steam from her. "I know Harry and Ron already told them, and, if there were any objections, I would have seen them immediately on Tuesday morning in my office." He walked beside her, pulling her hand up to the crook of his arm and folding his other hand over hers. "There's no reason to be nervous."

"How do you know?" she demanded, still not quite ready to look over at him. As much as she didn't want to admit it, he was probably right. Ron and Ginny would come to see her immediately if they had objections to anything she was involved in, but the older brothers would go to beard the lion in his den. 

"Because I know my sons," he said softly. "I know that George and Charlie most likely nodded and said something to the effect of 'good on them,' and that Bill is the one who would be in a temper, if any of them were. George would be happy because he hates for anyone to be alone anymore, and Charlie is still in the wine-and-roses part of his marriage to Sophie. I know that Ginny probably hugged Harry within an inch of his life, and I really don't want to think of how else she would have shown her happiness that we found one another." Hermione grimaced her agreement. She knew a bit too much about Ginny's affectionate ways of showing her appreciation of events to her husband, both from Ginny and from said husband. "And I know Ron probably took a long walks on the beach at Shell Cottage, with and without Lavender. My boys've come to me several times over the years with their problems, big and small, and they have never hesitated."

"They don't tell you everything," she objected. She, like everyone else close to the family, understood that whenever Arthur referred to his boys in such an instance, he was speaking of all of his children, not just those who happened to possess the physical characteristics of the male half of the species. Ginny knew, and didn't mind at all. In fact, she often teased Charlie and Bill that their littlest brother was going to hex them into next week “if.” 

He stopped walking several feet before they reached the porch and turned her to face him. 

"Ron did. He told me about the Horcruxes, that you three were leaving Hogwarts to go hunting them, and that the last time we might see any of you alive was at Bill's wedding." Hermione stared at him, stricken. "He also said he had his will written out and behind the Cannons poster in his room, along with Harry's behind his Sixth Year Gryffindor Quidditch team picture, and yours in a copy of Muggle adventure stories you'd given him two years before. I never said anything about it to Molly or the boys, but, when he told me where to find the documents, he asked for a Blessing." He didn't wait for her question, but explained. "An old tradition when a child, usually a son, is leaving to go against what has been expected of him, such as finishing school and staying out of a war. I gave him my Blessing, and he carried Blessings to you and Harry as well, since you weren't supposed to know that I knew what you were planning."

"I never would have guessed..." Hermione was caught between stunned and helplessly grateful. For all he could seem the bumbling idiot, Ron was sharp when it counted.

"You weren't supposed to. The first time he touched you and Harry at the same time, the Blessings transferred." He smiled softly. "I like to think that in some way, I helped to keep you safe while you were so far from all of us."

Hermione didn't stop to think where she was or who might see. She lifted onto her toes and kissed him soundly, her arms wrapping tight around him. He returned both the embrace and the kiss, separating only when a cheerful voice called from behind them, "Oi! That's enough of that! Y'might blind the witchlings!"

"Oh, George," Hermione huffed at the interruption, sounding for all the world like Molly in that moment.

The man's smile grew a little wider, and the woman at his side, Angelina Johnson-not-yet-Weasley, wife in all but her last name to George, laughed as the little girl she held slept on. 

"We're running late," Angelina said before the usual verbal fireworks between Hermione and George could erupt. "And you _know_ how Fleur gets."

Everyone nodded and continued walking around the house and to the back where several trestle tables waited, making two long stripes against the browning early-autumn grass. 

"Almost too cool to do this outside," Charlie said, coming over to hug his father and Hermione. "But at least Sophie is happy," he nodded to his tiny wife of nearly a year, who, like Lavender, was ready to pop at any moment. A flash of worry crossed his face, then was gone again.

"Are the children bundled up enough? Playtime will warm them up, but sitting for the meal they might get too chilled." There was something in Arthur's voice and the way he let go of her hand that told her he needed to speak to Charlie alone.

"I'll go help Fleur," Hermione said, smiling up at the dragonkeeper. She left father and son to talk, wondering now how the rest of the family would take it. 

Logic and knowledge of the family helped her figure out most of the reactions. Sophie was new to the family, having married Charlie barely a year ago, so she'd not been there to see any of them as children or teens. George had always had a kind of soft spot for her -- at least that's what he'd claimed when she had asked why he and Fred had never picked on her as much as they had the others. She knew Ron, Harry, and Ginny, Lavender were fine with everything; Angelina would corner her privately if there were any real concerns, but she would have done it much sooner; and Fleur was that odd Parisienne mixture of practical and romantic, so she didn't expect any difficulties there. It was Bill that worried her -- and who she nearly ran into at the kitchen door.

"Oh! Sorry about that!" she exclaimed, stepping quickly out of his way. He had a line of full serving plates floating behind him and she knew from experience that particular levitation spell did not like to be kept still.

"No problem," he replied, grinning at her over his shoulder. "Back in a jiff. Fleur's working on the pudding course."

"Right," she murmured as the eldest Weasley child moved quickly down to the tables, at least half of the dishes Fleur and the other Weasley wives had prepared floating docilely behind him.

Inside, Fleur had Ginny icing gingerbread biscuits, Lavender casting warming charms over the second half of the Sunday dinner, and Angelina stirring together peach juice and a light, sweet tea that was to be served cold, along with the ubiquitous pumpkin juice and Butterbeer, hot tea and coffee.

"Oh, good. Eet iz someone who knowz 'ow to fineesh zee icing on zee cake," Fleur said, holding up an icing knife and pointing to a monstrous three-layer cake that was only half frosted. "I need to get zee rest of zee meal out to zee tablez, and Laven-dear iz aching in 'er feet."

"I'll be fine, Fleur," the witch in question objected.

"Oui, but you will not be fine eef you do not go out and zit down, n'est-ce pas?"

"You're as impossible as Ron sometimes!"

"But at least she has a nifty Parisienne accent!" Hermione chimed in, stopping the grouchy Lavender from taking any more of her aches, pains, and near-full-moon temper out on her sister-by-marriage. 

Lavender gave Hermione a disgusted look and started to leave. 

"Here," Ginny said, handing her a spoon heaping with chocolate icing. "You know it helps."

"It's also why I'm as big as a fucking whale," Lavender snarled back, pushing the spoon away.

"And you'll lose it all in six weeks after the sprog is born." Two small, red-headed children ran through the kitchen to the back door. Ginny hissed more softly, "So stop being a world-class wolf bitch and eat the fucking chocolate."

"World class?" Lavender asked, lips twitching.

"At least," Hermione agreed.

"Definitely. You could, ah, _complain_ for England," Sophie teased.

"Fine. But I'm never going to forgive any of you for the weight this adds," the wolf-bitch in question replied with a giggle.

"Oh, but you'll forgive Ron. Now that's just wrong," Hermione complained.

"Yeah, but remember," Sophie checked for little ears before continuing; none were present. "Ron gives her orgasms."

"And that's why I forgive him," Lavender said, smugly.

"Please do not ever mention Ron and orgasms in the same sentence ever again," Hermione said, making a face. She may have kissed him, even twice, but the thought of sex with Ron -- of Ron having sex with anyone, despite the evidence that he actually _had_ \-- well, it was enough to put her off her food. "And do not _even_ start, Ginevra Potter! The same goes for Harry."

"But talking about George, Charlie, and Bill is all right?" Angelina asked, trying not to laugh.

"Yes," Hermione said, smiling as she frosted.

"You only bloody lived with Harry and Ron for a year, all alone -- are you still insisting that nothing happened?" Ginny demanded.

"For the last bloody time, I have never had sex with Harry or Ron, salacious rumours and lies printed by a certain Rita-Fucking-Skeeter notwithstanding!" Hermione snapped. Of the many ways that her good mood could be ruined, rehashing that particular point with anyone was in the top ten, maybe even the top five.

"For which we -- and by 'we' I mean Ron and myself -- are very grateful," Harry said, walking into the kitchen and kissing Hermione on the cheek. "It'd be like getting it on with our sister, so _no_ , Gin, and please drop it. Permanently." There was enough of an edge to his voice that Hermione gave him a concerned look. "Later," he mouthed.

Ginny opened her mouth to reply, then closed it, her lips thinning. Harry went on through the kitchen, not stopping for more than a perfunctory kiss on his wife's cheek and saying no more. Another look at Ginny saw the hurt and anger in her brown eyes, but more than that was confusion.

 _Lovely,_ Hermione thought. _They're fighting. Again. What could possibly be wrong this time? They agreed that three in five years was more than enough in the way of children and that Gin needed the break physically as much as mentally. Harry's career is going well -- Arthur mentioned he was up for a promotion soon. It can't be the children, since they're ridiculously healthy and already showing all the signs of being fully magical._

"Cake's done," she said, drawing attention back to their tasks and away from the man who consistently confused family and friends with his odd reactions and moods. The only people who understood, who didn't take it amiss when he snapped and snarled when he received what others would call good news or grinned when the worst information was passed on, were herself and Ron, and neither of them would be able to settle in and talk until after sunset when most of the children were tucked into their cribs and pallets, if then. She resolved to meet Harry at lunch tomorrow, if he didn't catch a case and she wasn't neck-deep in a new, urgent project.

"So are the biscuits," Ginny said, tossing the frosting knife she was using in the sink, not bothering to lick it, one of Hermione’s favourite parts about cooking desserts. Hermione didn't groan. She would have to talk to Ginny, too, and she was the only one who could when it came to Harry and his moods. None of the other wives really understood. 

Bill's condition was like Lavender's, so while Ron's wife and Fleur understood volatile natures, they were used to an instinctual sort of volatility, not the learned kind that the so-called Golden Trio had. Sophie hadn't been in England during the war, but had learned to deal with the slow-burning, dangerous temper and seemingly suicidal career of her patient dragonkeeper; and Angelina had her hands full with George, who seemed to consider himself the left-over twin. All of the men had problems and difficulties with ordinary things, but none of them, not even Hermione –a witch who had pitched her own impressive fits over the years -- quite matched Harry's unpredictable temperament.

As Hermione carried the cake out to the tables, she thought about Arthur. From what she could tell, and it wasn't much, he hadn't changed over the years she had known him. He was as kind and gentle as always, with a deceptively strong will hidden under that gentle, sometimes goofy demeanor. He was a man of substance, not show. More, he took her as she was, with all of her quirks and oddities, including her scars and nightmares and obsessive need to _find out_ if she didn't _know_. 

She set the cake on the table and turned to find her seat next to Arthur, who was no longer at the head of the table here at The Burrow. 

"Everything alright, love?" he murmured to her as she sat.

"If it's not, it will wait until tomorrow," she replied. "Harry's in one of his moods again."

"Ah." 

"If I can't catch him alone or with Ron tonight, I'll see him at lunch tomorrow," she continued, spooning a helping of potatoes onto her plate. "Besides, he's doing well enough for the moment, and so's Gin."

Arthur looked down the table at his daughter and son-in-law and noticed the signs of stress between them, how they avoided too much interaction. He knew those signs well enough from the early years of his own marriage. Loving Molly didn't mean they never fought, never had to cast silencing spells over the kitchen while the kids slept because they were so loud, never meant that a few times they had made the ghoul in the attic would cower in his dusty corner. Some of the fights they'd had were epic in scope, volume, length, and broken crockery. By the time the oldest were able to remember, though, they had learned to settle their battles without histrionics.

"I can try to see what's bothering Gin," he said, having long ago adopted the affectionate, if alcoholic, nickname for his only girl. 

"See what Harry has to say first," she replied, wondering, not for the first time, how this man had lived with the dragoness named Molly. She knew he could be stubborn, but he was usually so sweet about it that she didn't mind or even notice.

"Mm," was all he said in reply before turning to engage Bill in a quiet conversation about his work at Gringotts.

Hermione let the usual bustle and sound wash over her as she ate.

The strangest thing about this Sunday feast was that -- despite the problems and potential for problems despite her new relationship with Arthur; despite the sheer number of small children merrily creating chaos and messes with their lunches -- this place, this time, felt like home.

Hermione looked around, turned in time to catch Arthur's eyes, and smiled. 

After nearly twelve years adrift in the magical world, twelve years since she received her Hogwarts letter and started losing the Muggle life she had known, she had come home.


	2. When the Tables Turn

The children were in bed or tucked up under blankets upstairs, snugly asleep while the adults enjoyed the long Sunday evening coffee and conversation, the national holiday allowing all of them an extra day for the weekend and no guilt about staying up late on Sunday. When Bill slipped out of the crowded living room, only one person noticed. 

Arthur watched his eldest walk up the stairs and cut through what had been the twins' room across from the head of the stairs. He followed easily, his exit just as unnoticed as laughter rippled through the room at one of Sophie's risqué tales of her early days as a Quidditch photographer in Australia. Charlie's wife was unrepentant about her salacious past as, in her words, a “Quidditch slut,” and she quite happily told anyone who would listen exactly how much alike the players’ Quidditch skills were like their bedroom skills -- a trait that Charlie found charming and entertaining, but he had found manifestly uncomfortable. He was no saint, but there were limits on what he was willing to reveal to his children; hearing about their own exploits was not high on his list of topics, even if said "child" was a daughter-in-law. Perhaps especially if. 

After a moment's consideration, Arthur slipped away from the group, his own departure unnoticed in the laughter and serving of more tea and coffee all around. This was the best time to talk to his eldest, who had, in an odd non-reaction to anything, avoided all but the lightest of small-talk. 

Bill never made small talk. It was one of the things Arthur appreciated most about him. Charlie would chatter on about creatures; the twins would -- and George still could -- drive one batty with a constant patter of jokes and asides; Ron could talk Quidditch and spend hours saying precisely nothing; and Ginny was an artist when it came to empty conversation, a talent he blamed on Harry's leech-like press corps. Bill, though, had learned not to waste time in saying what was needed, so small-talk over dinner was not indicative of accepting the new relationship of Arthur and Hermione. On the other hand, he hadn't attacked, either. 

Arthur found his eldest on the roof outside the twins' window, the old tree near enough to climb up or down, something that all his children had done when they thought he hadn't noticed. He had noticed, of course, just as he'd known about Bill and Charlie's rather unorthodox choice in witches and locations to make their first forays into becoming sexually active young men. _Of all places, the couch downstairs..._ Even now he rolled his eyes. Impetuous brats. (Keeping Molly's rather vocal reaction contained and her in their bedroom instead of storming out to screech at the offending youngsters had been a battle he'd not enjoyed, but he'd won it more easily than most would suspect.) He thought then, and still thought now, that it was best to let young adventurers find their way and feel just wicked enough that they avoided real trouble; Ron, Harry, and Hermione excepted, of course. 

As he walked into the twins' room, an old, familiar scent drifted to him through the open window and he shook his head. Whatever the problem that his eldest may or may not have with the relationship between Arthur and Hermione, and no small part of it was the rapidity of it all after Molly's death a few months ago, there were other issues that plagued the son who was, at heart, most like himself. The full moon was riding Bill, so he wasn't inclined to discuss anything sensitive. Unfortunately for Bill, Arthur was in the mood for just such a conversation. There had been some tense moments between them over the years and one or two all-out arguments, though no real physical or magical challenges between them, and Arthur had yet to lose. He didn't intend to lose now, if it came down to it. They would have this discussion now and clear the air, whether Bill was inclined to do so or not.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked softly through the open window.

Bill turned and looked at him. "I left to get some air, get away from the noise," Bill replied. The implied, 'away from you and her,' did not go unnoticed. Then, seeing that paternal eyebrow arch up, he capitulated with a sigh. "Come on, then."

Arthur climbed out onto the roof and sat beside his son on the Muggle-style shingles. "Interesting alternative to Wolfsbane," Arthur said, nodding to the joint as Bill inhaled.

"Old trick I learned from my master during my apprenticeship," Bill replied. "Opens my magic up, makes my mind sharper and concentration easier, and, as I found out about three years ago, soothes the wolf because it integrates the magic of the curse of the wolf with my own magic." He shrugged. "Better than snapping at someone downstairs." 

Literally. He'd done that once or twice before, and Charlie was the only one who'd grinned at him and made a "bring it on" gesture with his hand. The mood Bill had been in, he'd done just that. Arthur had ended up playing referee for them on a regular basis after that. He'd wrestled with Bill once or twice since then, put up a good showing, too, though it had been experience and age that had permitted him to win, not sheer physicality. They were surprisingly evenly matched, given the time Arthur had not had to spend in heavily physical pursuits these last several years. "Just too much...everything at the moment."

Arthur held out his hand. Bill looked askance at him but passed the joint over as requested. He watched as his father put the end of the twist between his lips and inhaled once lightly, then once deeply, holding the last breath as he returned the joint. _Yes, Bill, I know how to smoke marijuana. Hell, I know how to do a number of things that would shock you silly. I might even decide to tell you a few of them, just to watch your little jaw drop and your eyes bug. What would you say if I told you about trying out for a position as a Beater on a professional Quidditch team? Molly never even knew...Hell, she was still in school. What will you make of_ this _, I wonder?_

As he exhaled, Arthur drew his wand with his left hand and sketched a small glyph in the air. A moment later, the glyph floated down, grafted to his right arm, and faded into his skin. Energy flowed through him, a kind of sixth sense for his surroundings, allowing him to increase his attention on his son's reactions and moods. He had the strangest feeling he'd need it for this conversation. Hopefully it didn't end up like the one where he'd had to explain exactly how babies got into their mothers to begin with. That had been truly a miserable experience for them both, especially since Molly was six months along with Ginny at the time. The one truly entertaining bit about the whole thing had been the screwed up face Bill had made and his shocked, "People really do that? Yuck!" Arthur felt he hadn't muffed it too badly, though, as Bill seemed to have recovered completely, given the events on the couch when the brat was only just sixteen and subsequent additions _(the twins will make five in six years...slow down, son!)_ to the Weasley family line since that awkward afternoon.

"When the hell did you learn about that little spell?" Bill asked, staring at his father as though he'd never seen him before. In so many ways, he hadn't. "It's not something I'd expect in your repertoire."

Arthur snorted. "Right. Why is that, Bill?"

Bill shrugged. The question had been honest, truly asking why Arthur wouldn't -- couldn't -- know that particular spell. "Y'work for the Ministry, always have; always dealing with Muggle bits and bobs." Another puff, another pass. Bill was so certain he knew his father, and Arthur would concede that in many ways, he did. But he didn't know everything. "No need for that kind of magic there."

"Ah." Arthur took a long drag, let it out, then took another, slowly letting the smoke trickle from his nostrils, passing the joint back to Bill. "I suppose that is all you'd remember, but I was young once. Single." He laughed softly. Memories rose up, the old memories, the ones from before Molly and marriage and children and the Ministry. "I had a job filled with travel and adventure, wild days and wilder witches... until I met Moll again outside of Hogwarts." Arthur made a split-second decision. Molly had always sweetened up their relationship, talked about meeting at Hogwarts and falling in love, marrying, and then came Bill. She'd never lied, but she definitely left out a few things. "I could tell you stories that'd have you blushing for a month."

Bill laughed. "Right. You and mum met at Hogwarts, fell in love, married, and then did your damnedest to increase the population of Wizarding England. Pull the other one." Bill was still blinded by the fact that this was his _father_ , not recalling that he, the Curse-Breaker and explorer, had a past of his own that had nothing to do with the family he loved more than his own life.

"Oh, we met at Hogwarts, but I barely noticed her. I was a seventh year, and Moll was a pudgy little second year by the time I knew her by name -- we just called her Flamin' Glory during her first year, since she was the only redhead in the house other than me, and she had such a short fuse. Didn't know she was one of _those_ Prewetts" _Aunt Muriel's infamous_ "until after she'd signed our marriage certificate." Arthur raised his eyebrow, giving Bill a look. "And if you think I was enamoured of a little second-year when Andromeda Black, Quinnalee Abbott, and Destrina Roland were swanning around in the tightest tops and shortest skirts they could get away with, you're dead wrong." 

Shaking his head, Arthur rolled a second while Bill finished off the first, the effects of the marijuana only somewhat evident on the wolf in his son's head. The Hogwarts' love story was dead now. Arthur sighed softly as he lit the second joint and took a hit.

"No, I wasn't always a husband and father, Bill. I was young, once. Had friends, adventures, long hair," he grinned at his son, flicked the fang that Molly had fussed about so much, "and an earring. I lived, Bill, every moment." He closed his eyes. Now for the truth. This was going to hurt, but it was time to lay the past to rest. For both of them. 

"I saw your mum again when she was nineteen. She was dating a friend of mine, a Quidditch player, and I'd run into them right before he had to leave for a match. We were about three blocks from her apartment just inside Muggle London, so we couldn't just Apparate to her flat. We said goodbye to him, and I helped her carry a few things to her flat. She was incredible; a free spirit. She had long red hair, wore one of those handkerchief dresses under her coat-- fabric so thin it was nearly transparent in the sun. She was a gorgeous witch with a waist so small I could almost touch fingertips and hips that flared..." He sucked in a breath at the memory, closed his eyes. 

She had been a glorious woman, rebellious as only a girl raised to be a wife and mother could be in those early years when Witches' Lib was just getting going. He'd never forget that day, December 3, 1969. 

"Her eyes were wild as the western wind..." Arthur laughed softly again, the memory of that day sweeping over him. "She mentioned Hogwarts; that's when I recognized her. I called her Flamin' Glory; she shot me this _look_...and between putting the packages on her kitchen table and the door, we wound up wrapped around each other. Didn't even make it to the bed." 

Bill coughed, more of a choke; Arthur whacked him on the back, took the joint and a deep hit. 

"Never expected to see her again." He laughed, shaking his head. "Three weeks later, she was standing at the door to my flat. Three months later, we were married and she was four months pregnant with you. We didn't have a grand love story, Bill. Got her up the duff and figured out, after we were planning the wedding, that I did love her and she was the only witch for me." 

Arthur looked over at Bill then. He and Molly had tumbled one another but good that day, but they never thought of it as their first night together. After all, an hour or so in the afternoon hardly counts as night. His son was the result of that afternoon delight. His because he could see so much of himself in his eldest -- and Wizarding lore said the first child was always the father's, the last the mother's. He never had understood how that worked out for only children, though. 

He saw the shock in Bill's eyes, the questions that were bubbling up; felt the hurt and uncertainty. It was a nasty surprise to find out that your conception was entirely unplanned, after all, and Arthur knew that well. His brothers had been the planned children, himself an accident later on. It was well enough, though, that he'd come along, since his brothers had both died before he'd turned a year: accidents were just as deadly as the Killing Curse. 

"I fell in love with her when she stood beside me, facing down her brothers and her parents, when she accepted equal responsibility for the abrupt changes in her life plans and mine." He put his hand on Bill's shoulder. "We were surprised, scared, and barely knew each other, really, but we knew we wanted you. Never doubt that." He took a breath. "Remember that advice I gave you when you married Fleur?" Bill nodded. "Well, it's true that Moll and I didn't plan the family, but we wanted each and every one of you." 

Some of the tension left Bill then, and he nodded. Arthur recalled that Bill's senses were sharper now, and Bill had mentioned something a while back about the scent of lies. Arthur wasn't lying, and Bill knew it now. The hurt was less, the certainty that was his trademark coming back. 

Arthur didn't tell him the rest of it. Newlyweds though they were, they had been oddly shy with one another after that one interlude, even after they were married for a few weeks. When they had finally consummated their marriage, it had devastated them both; but Bill didn't need to know that. Arthur remembered a young, somewhat shaken Bill after he and Fleur had returned from their honeymoon. 

_"Dad? You got a minute?"_

_"Sure. What's on your mind?" The basement of Grimmauld Place certainly wasn't his garage, but it was private enough._

_"Just... I'm married." Bill's inane statement caught Arthur's attention in a way that few things could right now. He had to get these charms just right...but Bill needed him. Voldemort could wait._

_"I recall the wedding quite clearly," Arthur said, voice dry but kind._

_"I have a wife," Bill said, still a bit wild-eyed. "I'll have children. Oh, fuck, I'm not ready for this!"_

_Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Don't even think about it," he warned, voice heavy with paternal disapproval._

_"What have I done? I don't know how--" Bill's blue eyes were wide and his hair was loose, dishevelled from running his hand through it over and over again, like he was doing now._

_"Stop." Arthur rarely used the ‘Voice of Authority,’ so-called by his irreverent sons because he was usually too laid-back about their misdeeds, but when he used that particular tone, he truly commanded every ounce of their attention. "You made your choices; your witch made hers. Do not belittle her or yourself with this...dithering. You know everything I've taught you. You know how to do your job. You know how to keep yourself and her safe. You know to trust her at your back. There is nothing else to know._

_"Yes, you'll have children. You'll make mistakes. Most of them will be small, but some will haunt you for years."_

_He took a long look at his son. His voice softened, his hands found Bill's shoulders and blue eyes met, one pair still panicked, the other calm and filled with the confidence only experience could give. "Do you think I would have given you my Blessing if you weren't ready, Bill?" Bill shook his head slowly, and Arthur continued. "Close your eyes. Picture yourself back in Egypt. Think of how you felt then, what you told me when we were walking by the Pyramids. Now think of your witch, your beautiful Fleur. Think of the way she looks at you when you are together, alone, just enjoying the stars. Do you remember when you knew she would be the mother of your children?" Bill nodded again, shoulders relaxing. "It's your time to live, Bill, to have your wife and your family."_

_Blue eyes opened, and there was still fear, but the panic was gone. "I'm still..." He couldn't say it._

_Arthur gave his son a knowing smile, a gentle one tempered with understanding. "Get used to it, son. You'll spend the next twenty years or so this way. If you're lucky, the worrying will be for nothing."_

_Bill nodded, obviously disturbed by his new reality, but reassured by his touchstone. His father still believed in him. He could do this._

_But Merlin's fucking_ beard _, he was still scared._

Bill soaked in these truths for a minute, accepted them. He took a hit and handed the joint to Arthur. There wasn't much left. He wouldn't need another, even after sharing. The wolf was settling nicely now. Or maybe it was the answers to questions he never realized he had had.

"So what does that make Hermione, then?" Bill asked softly, looking out at the rising moon, his mistress and nemesis. "A good time? A comfort for a while, until you realize you're not over Mum? When it's over, what will you do? Walk away? Are you planning to break her heart? Does she know that Mum was 'the only witch for you' -- your words, not mine." Bill turned clear, troubled blue eyes to his father. Arthur could sense the struggle that was still going on inside his son. 

"When Ron told us, I wanted to punch you; I wanted to hug you; to yell at you; to tell you I was glad you were able to move on..." He gave a shake of his head, turned back to the moon. Charlie and George had simply nodded and gone on, but Bill knew there was something more to it than just what was there. He didn't know how he knew, but he did. It wasn't enough to go confront his father, but it was too much to just nod and accept it. It could have been the wolf that never fully manifested as a werewolf, but rode his mind all the same; it could have been the hurt of knowing some part of his mother had been replaced by a witch half her age. Arthur was giving him truth; he would return the favour. It was how they operated, after all. "Couldn't decide -- wasn't sure how much was the wolf and how much was me, wanting to know you hadn't forgotten Mum -- so I waited to see you together. She loves you." He tapped his nose. "Nothing smells quite like love. What are you going to do when you break her heart? When she breaks yours?" Even more softly, a bit sadly, he said, "Because you love her, too."

Arthur nodded, taking these questions seriously. Bill never asked the easy ones. "We didn't plan anything, Hermione and I." He ran his hand through his hair, let his hand rest on the back of his neck, an old, old habit when things got difficult. He took the time to really consider what he needed to say, even if he delivery wasn't perfect. Bill would understand, more than any of his children, Bill would understand.

"It's odd, I know, but I never really got to know Hermione; not when Ron and Harry stayed here as kids, not even when she was here so often talking with Moll." He shook his head. "Then Moll..." He swallowed. No, it still hurt. He couldn't say it, not yet. One harsh breath, another, and he could on, voice rough with unshed tears, "After the funeral, I... I couldn't sleep. Neither could she. We met in the kitchen, had some of that milk potion Moll used to make, and went to bed. She turned back at the stairs, though, and hugged me. Then she left. Came back. She didn't want to face the night alone, either." 

Bill gave him a meaningful look. Arthur shook his head. "No, not then. Not for...I honestly don't know how long. She has nightmares." Bill nodded, the explanation understood and accepted as such. 

Arthur's voice was filled with the pain of loss when he whispered, "Over thirty years, and I'd not slept alone, Bill. It's strange to think it, but it's possible to forget how to sleep alone. I had. She stayed with me, and we managed to sleep. That was all." Arthur gave Bill a small, sad smile. "It was enough. We started sleeping in the same bed then. I moved into her flat; we shared a room. One night, we became lovers." He couldn't say how or why, only that they did. Bill wouldn't want the details anyway. Thank God.

"We've been together for...a little while now. Yes, I love her, but she hasn't replaced Molly. No one can. Do you understand that, Bill?" Blue eyes searched for some kind of acceptance, some sign that this wasn't a confession in vain.

"I think so," Bill said, sighing. "Just...do you think this can last? I mean, you've got grandchildren -- what if she wants kids? A second family? Or worse, what if she gets pregnant and it doesn't work out between you?"

"Not a consideration. She can't have children at all, and she probably wouldn't appreciate it if the news were spread around. As for me having a second family," Arthur chuckled, shook his head. "No. I've no interest in fathering any more children. You lot were more than enough...and I wouldn't trade a day of the chaos for anything, but I certainly don't want a reprise, not at my age."

"So what is it about her that makes you think this can turn out any way but badly?" Bill demanded, slightly frustrated at the non-answers he was getting. The history of the romance was all well and good, and more than he wanted to know, but he wasn't getting an actual answer.

Arthur gave his son a long, measured look. His son, yes, but now more of a friend. 

He remembered years ago, a conversation much like this one, only Bill was being asked the difficult questions and couldn't come up with any coherent answer, except "I love her." The sixth-year romance -- the one consummated so ill-advisedly on the living room couch while he'd kept Molly from running out and hexing anything that breathed -- hadn't lasted, of course, but Arthur remembered holding Bill while he tried not to cry over his broken heart, a battle the boy had lost in the end. 

He also remembered the first time Bill had bearded him in his "den," the old detached garage that had been his sanctuary from the chaos, however rarely enjoyed. Chaos had a knack of finding him there, usually with tears or skinned knees or sibling rivalries. 

A week after graduation, young Bill had walked in to the garage late one night, hair only a little longer than Molly liked, a small gold Apprentice's stud in his ear, and announced he had a job as an apprentice Curse-Breaker at Gringotts. 

Clear blue eyes, an exact match for his own, had been filled with pride at the accomplishment and fear that Arthur wouldn't understand, that Molly would be called out and he'd get it from both sides. Instead, Arthur had gripped his shoulder, told him how proud he was, and that they'd have a celebration breakfast in the morning. 

What Bill hadn't known was that Molly had hit the ceiling exactly as dreaded, and, for one of the few times he deemed it worth the extensive effort after a day at work and an evening wrangling children, Arthur had truly put his foot down and refused to let her destroy this adventure.

_"It's not right!" Molly screeched, teary-eyed at the thought of her first leaving home, no matter for what or where. And Curse-Breaking was such a dangerous career! Her baby was leaving her – Arthur understood why she was so angry, so upset. It wasn't Bill's success, it was him leaving. His father had explained it to him several years ago, that even his mother, the dragoness Cedrella Black, had an unreasonable streak miles wide when it came to her children._

_"No, Moll," he'd said firmly, "this is how it's supposed to be. We've done our best with him, teaching him to be a good person who knows right from wrong. It's time to let him go and find his own way. We'll always be here, if he needs us, but our work is done. His is only just beginning." She had tried to interrupt. "We'll celebrate in the morning, give him his moment to shine for his siblings. Believe me, the shine won't last long."_

_"But it's too dangerous, Arthur!" Her last wailed protest fell short of its mark: He hadn't given in to her desire to keep Bill home, where he would be safe, near her...her baby was leaving...Arthur knew he was in for a long summer._

_"I know exactly how dangerous it is, Molly, and he'll do fine. Be proud of him, Moll, and let him see it." She had drawn in breath to protest again, and he had used that voice on her, "Enough. Bill is going on his journey, and we_ will _support him."_

_Molly had nodded, then, eyes filled with tears. He had wrapped his arms around her and tried not to be jealous of his son's position in life: that moment, that step out of the protection of family and school into the wide, wild world. He'd tasted that moment himself, once, and found it a heady brew. Deep inside, a little voice had reminded him that once, long ago, he had been young and strong and had the world laid at his feet..._

"I wasn't always a husband and father," Arthur replied, repeating something he'd said earlier. "I had my own adventures. I was young, beholden to none, with none beholden to me. I had my partner and my wand; and, yes, Bill,” he turned to look at his son, more intense in the moment than Bill had ever seen him, the past shining through the usual pleasant blue, “I know _exactly_ what it is to live in that moment when a curse could break and dissolve or snap back at you, _consume_ you, and spit out the bones."

"You worked for Gringotts?" Bill said, frowning, he started to say something else, but Arthur was speaking again.

"No. Weisengales, the London office. It closed in '75." Arthur shook his head sharply, once. "The point is that I remember, Bill. I remember what it is to be young and strong, sure and ready. I remember what it was like to have the world spread out before me, just waiting.

"I took the job at the Ministry because, for all her bravado, Molly wasn't as strong as Fleur. She could have gone on without me, but Curse-Breaking was too dangerous with a pregnant wife who was raised to be a wife and mother, not an employee at some corporation or Ministry office. Remember the times, remember her family was very traditional and she was, well, she tried to be a free spirit, but when she got pregnant, she realized the young rebel she'd been had hidden her traditional heart." 

Arthur gave Bill a small smile, one that had become so familiar over the years, the sudden intensity gone for now. "I left my job, went to the Ministry, and picked the one office that I would be left out of the politics, left to work on curses and enchantments, even if it wasn't the ones I'd loved untangling for so long."

"Can't see you as a Breaker, Dad," Bill confessed, his own signature style being less his own and more of his profession's unofficial uniform. 

There weren't many Curse-Breakers that made it to his level, so most didn't wear the protective leathers, the protective fang, the warded belt, the heavy boots. He dealt with the truly interesting curses now, after all of the scut-work he'd done as an apprentice. The year his family had come to see him had been the year he'd reached mastery in his field, the year he'd earned his warded belt from his master. Four years of scut and theory, of assisting and being guided through, then six months of leading his own pair of assistants...it had been worth it. He loved his job. He had been 23. He was 32 now, almost 33. How had his father hidden this from him? He _knew_ when he was around another Curse-Breaker, even if they didn't work for Gringotts. 

Arthur snorted. "Ministry always has been too conservative. They didn't want long-haired, earring-wearing, tattooed libertines in leather trousers with wrist-braces on wand-hands -- and that is precisely what I was told when I went down to pick up an application. They wanted family men, with a certain look and a certain attitude, so I packed it all away and spent the last thirty-three years stuffed in a basement office with Nose-biting Teacups and various other nuisance hexes." He stopped, a tiny smile playing on his lips, soft and warm. He let Bill see his eyes, made sure to wait for his son's eyes to widen just a bit. Bill could see that he didn't regret a minute -- could smell it. Then he spoke again.

"I did it for Moll, and for you. I was a husband and father, and it was my responsibility to take care of my family. After a while, it was easy to forget that I had been an adventurer, that I had had more witches and wild times than you will _ever_ hear about. Tell _me_ you haven't found yourself thinking less about the next job and more about whether or not Victoire is going to need a new set of clothes for winter. Tell _me_ you aren't thinking of where to get Dominique and Louis toy brooms. Tell _me_ you aren't worried about this pregnancy and that she's not too early into her travail with the twins. Tell _me_ you don't think Fleur needs a longer break from childbearing than she'll admit. Tell _me_ you _aren't_ glad you're in the main office of Gringotts now, not the field."

Bill laughed, nodding. It was true. 

"It's easy to forget, Bill, but..." and here was the part that made him feel like he was possibly doing something wrong, the bit that sounded like some sort of muzzy-aged crisis, or whatever the term Muggles used was, "there's something about Hermione, about being with Hermione, that reminds me that I'm older, yes, but not _old_. I won't be old by wizarding standards for another fifty or so years. I may not want to try out for professional Quidditch, but I'm not decrepit. Not yet. I still feel strong and capable. She helps me remember that I am." He looked over at Bill, eyes and face as serious as his son had ever seen. 

"I will always be here for you and your siblings, Bill, but you're grown now, with children of your own. My work is done, and you're building your own lives now, rearing your own children, making your own mistakes. There's not much left for me to teach you all, except that life doesn't end with parenthood. It may seem like you're marking time, that every day is a slightly different version of the same chaos, but life goes on." 

Bill nodded, and realized there was nothing left to say, nothing left for him to ask. No, his questions hadn't been answered, but he understood where this was all coming from now. He wasn't upset about it; knew that Molly wasn't forgotten; knew that Arthur and Hermione would survive, even if their relationship didn't. 

The two men stood and went back inside the twins' room -- they would always think of it that way, and one day soon it would be true again -- and Arthur stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. Bill looked over at the man who, by Wizarding standards, was still young enough to be his older brother; who, now that he was searching for it, didn't look like a grandfather of nearly ten or a father of seven, didn't look _old_. Yes, there were lines around his eyes, but those were from the stress of war and Molly's illness, not age. After losing that weight that his desk job had slowly added, Bill realized that his father looked nearly as fit as he himself was. It made more sense when these bits of information settled in to his thoughts. 

"Bill, those questions you asked me about Hermione and what would happen if we break each other's hearts?" Bill nodded, noting Arthur's oddly proud smile. "We had that conversation years ago. Do you recall the witch's name?" Bill shook his head, eyes narrowed and curious. There was a point here. He wasn't going to like it. "Didn't think so. I'm proud of you. You were thinking like a father." Bill smiled, the hand on his shoulder shifted to the back of his neck as Arthur's eyes turned amused and his voice wicked. "But you're not _my_ father." 

Arthur squeezed the back of his son's neck in an old paternal gesture he'd used since Bill had been old enough to walk, and left the room. 

Bill stood there for several moments, gobsmacked. The realizations hit him all at once: he was married, had children, worried incessantly about a thousand things that he'd never even thought of before, including his father's love life and his father's lover's potential heartache. 

_When the hell had he become his father?_

***  
Arthur rejoined the gathering downstairs, finding Hermione on the sofa and settling in beside her. They were squeezed in close enough that when she got up to refill the self-brewing teapots so Fleur could relax for a bit longer, he was able to shift into her spot. She returned to the group and found herself sitting on his lap, one arm looped easily over his shoulders, mimicking the pose Charlie and Sophie had adopted, though her belly wasn't sticking out in front of her and rolling with what seemed to be an alien, not a child. 

They were still laughing and teasing one another when Bill walked downstairs. He kissed his wife, stole her teacup while she laughed at his 't'ieveree,' and caught his father's eye, raising his stolen teacup in salute. 

Hermione caught the exchange and wondered at it. She and Arthur would need to talk tonight, but it would wait until they were back at the flat. She was still worried about what Bill would think, but she and Arthur had gotten enough of a good-natured ribbing from the rest of the crew that she wasn't worried about the rather unorthodox pairing of ‘father with son's friend’ being accepted anymore. Not really. Not from everyone there...except Bill. She had no idea what he was thinking, and she was still nervous about finding out. 

Bill watched as Harry deftly teased Hermione about creating a Muggle-friendly version of Quidditch. Ron, Charlie, Sophie, Ginny, Angelina, George, and even Fleur joined in, and everyone laughed as Hermione's response skewered every possible reason such a game was a good idea. When Arthur chimed in with some politically correct drivel about expanding the awareness of Wizarding sports to the families of Muggleborns, she threw up her hands in disgust. 

"Next thing, you lot will start saying that body shots should be the drink of choice at the Leaky!" 

Bill watched Arthur murmured something to Hermione as Harry, Ron, and Sophie howled. 

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Bill reinforced the muffling wards around the children's rooms. They didn't need to be woken up by this lot's raucous ways. He increased the sensitivity of the Mum's Charm each witch had cast to let them know if one of the kids woke -- and shook his head, smiling. 

So he had become his father. There were worse men to be. 


	3. When a Witch Just Can't Catch a Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and we begin to earn the Explicit rating with this chapter...

Flooing back at almost midnight was considerably safer than Apparating at that time of night, especially onto their small balcony, shielded to look like the glass of a Muggle skyscraper. Insects, pests, and other undesirables were warded out, Muggles couldn't see the sudden appearance of anyone magical, and any owls seen flying through the glass were dismissed as figments of the imagination. The fireplace was large, though, and the balcony smaller than either Hermione or Arthur liked for late-night arrivals. 

After shaking the soot off, Hermione asked, "Is everything alright?"

"Hm?" Arthur looked up from spelling the ash off his shoes and nodded. "Oh, yes. Charlie was worried that Sophie's too small and the baby is too large." He grimaced. "I gave him a few ways to measure and reminded him that the midwife wouldn't lie to him. She'll be fine."

"Sophie's hips were wide before, even if the rest of her is as big as a minute. Given the way a woman's hips change during pregnancy..." She tipped her head to the side. "Nothing to worry about, even if I could swear you and Molly fed Charlie Skele-gro as a kid." 

Arthur laughed. "He's not much taller than I am, and the build, well, he got that from Molly's side. Her dad was definitely what one calls 'barrel-chested' -- for all he was five foot five. I think his jackets were somewhere at a fifty-three inch chest."

"Bloody hell," Hermione murmured. "That's almost as tall as I am..." She was only five-two. A curvy, petite five-two, but still far too short for her own liking. Arthur was nearly a foot taller, but she forgave him for it. Her wicked thought took her back to Sophie's comment about Lavender forgiving Ron. Yes, she'd forgive Arthur for considerably more than his height as long as he kept wrapping her in his magic and giving her orgasms. Not that she'd tell him that...not yet, if ever. She switched back to the family. "What about Bill?"

Arthur heard the trepidation in her voice and smiled reassuringly. "He's fine. We talked for a bit -- "

"Is that where you got off to?" she asked, searching his eyes carefully. "I'd wondered. Bill disappears for a time whenever everyone's gathered, but I wasn't sure if you just wanted a few minutes peace or what."

"Or what. And you've no need to worry, so don't. Bill is fine with this, with us." He didn't add that Bill was asking how long it would last. Arthur knew better than to ask the question, of himself or of Hermione. This would last as long as it lasted, and from where he stood, it felt like that could be a very long time indeed. How he was going to break it to his marriage-minded daughter that there wouldn't be a wedding for a very long time – if ever – he didn't know, but that was another worry for another day.

"Alright, then," Hermione said, taking him at his word. Molly would have worried him for at least an hour, asking how he knew and how he was sure. Hermione just accepted that he knew his sons, perhaps reserving the right to bring it up later if he turned out to be wrong. "It's late. Let's go to bed."

Arthur smiled, took her hand, and they walked to their room together, more content to curl up in the darkness than start anything more energetic. 

***

Morning came the same as always, and Arthur rolled his eyes when he saw the time. They had the day off, perfect for a lie-in, and here he was, waking up at the same bloody time he always had on a work day, well since he'd worked for the Ministry. His hours were different now – as an Undersecretary he wasn't due in until an hour after his assistant unless there was a meeting scheduled, and he left an hour later than his assistant – but his internal clock was apparently hardwired after thirty-plus years. He thought about getting up and starting breakfast, but decided Hermione would prefer if he stayed – she wouldn't feel guilty about sleeping on while he was up and working. Not that she would feel guilty, necessarily, but she hated to be the one resting while someone else was being industrious. Really, he was doing it for her, not getting up. 

He shifted, saw the bare back and scarred shoulders of the witch he had come to love, and then felt the inevitable ‘good morning’ that had plagued him every day since he had entered puberty. He looked at those shoulders again, soft gold in the morning sun, hair a wild tangle over the pillow, and grinned. No need to waste it, after all. A little work on his part and they'd both have a very good morning indeed.

Leaning over her as she lay on her stomach, he kissed Hermione's shoulder, then slid his lips a bit further, kissing her shoulder blade, then the soft muscle between scapula and spine, then that little knot at the base of her neck... There. She shifted a bit, murmured something. He pressed closer, working along her shoulders again, then moving to the top of her shoulder to follow the line of muscle that led to her neck, his hands sliding over her lower back and up her side. She murmured again, a sleepy little sound and twitched her hips up a bit. 

With a soft chuckle, Arthur began to seduce his sleepy witch in earnest now. She woke somewhere between the kisses on her neck and ear, sighed happily, and reached back to pull his head down further, intending to roll over and face him. He kissed her lips in a bit of an awkward stretch for them both, then pressed lightly on her shoulder.

"Don't move," he murmured, pressing his groin against that delicious curve where her bum met her thigh, "just lift your hips."

Hermione shivered and did just that, feeling him slide her thighs out a bit wider, settling over her and she bit her lip in anticipation. "Is that enough?" she breathed. They'd had a rather predictable love-life so far, until the interlude on the couch. She was interested in more variation, so long as they didn't lose the magic that rose between them. It had been some time since Jarome and his magic-less sex, and she missed the inventiveness of some of the things they'd done, if not the boring, almost sterile _(Was it possible to have sterile sex, given the nature of the act and the ubiquitous bodily fluids? -- never mind...that was lovely, the way he slipped over her sensitive labia)_ results.

"Perfect," he replied, concentrating on her neck and ear, smiling when she moaned softly. Yes, she was ready for him – eager, if he was any judge. He fitted himself against her just so and pushed a bit, eyes closing as she lifted her hips more to meet him. He lifted up from against her back – leverage was always tricky like this, and Hermione had enough of an arse as to be inconvenient in this position – pressing down on her spine between her shoulders as she tried to follow him, tried to move to hands and knees. "Keep your shoulders down..." He moved again. Yes, that was better. He lifted her hips a bit more and began to tease her with slow moves, long caresses over her back and hips.

Hermione groaned softly as Arthur drove her slowly insane. Her hands clenched in the sheets, she was rocking her forehead from side-to-side on the mattress, the pillow tossed aside earlier because it put an inconvenient and painful bend in her neck. That was gone now, her back mostly straight, the sensitive tips of her breasts brushing the sheets in a kind of counterpoint to the one he'd started behind her, and his hands... Oh, Merlin, those hands, long-fingered and strong, slightly calloused from years of yardwork and tinkering about the house, kept skimming up and down her back, finding and pressing on every sensitive spot that made her ache for him to move faster, harder...

"That's it," he murmured over her, hearing her whimper as she lifted her hips a little higher still, silently demanding more of everything from him, using what leverage she could manage to pull her knees closer and rock back into him. He hadn't wanted to speed up yet; had wanted to take his time and savour this witch who responded so sweetly, so artlessly...so completely. He never compared her to Molly, or Molly to her, except in the vaguest of ways, and there was no comparison now. He had loved Molly, and always would love her, and they had enjoyed the kind of romance that novels were written about...except those smutty ones. Molly, bless her, had been a traditionalist at heart, and he loved her enough to love her in the ways she preferred...but there were so many things that he hadn't done in years – _decades_ – and this was one of them. He felt connected to that younger Arthur, the one who had lived so recklessly... Was there any real difference between the man he was now and then, except experience? He was beginning to believe not.

"Arthur," Hermione moaned, something in her voice pulling his pleasure down to the base of his spine, sending it crackling through his body, making his magic surge and search for the witch who brought him so much, so very much more than he had ever expected to find. He found himself speeding up, not too hard, not too fast...but just enough to have his magic extend and reach out to wrap around her...to draw hers into responding and sparking against his skin, driving him faster, harder...pushing his torso down close over her back, one hand sliding to hold her shoulder in place, bracing his weight, the other snaking around her hips and teasing her in ways he hadn't before....those slightly rough fingers tormenting slick, nerve-wild, delicate skin until she was gasping and crying out with every thrust...her magic biting and snapping at him now, harder and sharper as she needed to feel him let go, needed to feel everything from him to reach her pleasure.

"God, witch, what you do to me," he rasped in her ear as he finally let himself go, gave her the rougher, harder, snapping thrusts they both needed so much...and felt her come apart around him. He followed her swiftly, his magic wrapping her up so tightly she could barely breathe even as he lost his bones to pleasure and pressed her too hard into the mattress with his weight. As soon as he could, he started to roll off her – he didn't want to because he was still buried in her and he didn't want to lose her heat, didn't want to slip from her so soon, not from this incredible witch.

"No," she panted, "Stay...like this. Need to feel you like this, feel you inside."

"I'm not too heavy?" he asked, not wanting to squash her. She was so small. She had dangerous curves, larger breasts than her clothing suggested, a small waist, and hips that just begged a man to grab on and ride...but she was still a petite witch. He definitely wasn't a petite wizard.

"Perfect...just like this..." she sighed, obviously drifting off again. "Love you...Arth...ur." And she was gone, back to the land of dreams.

"Love you, Hermione," he murmured in reply. He pressed his lips to her hair and stayed where he was. He could move in a minute or so, after she was deeply asleep and he had slipped from her. He wouldn't move far, just take his weight off her, not so far that he wasn't pressed against her back so tightly, still where that sweet gap where she hadn't tried to close her thighs would still cradle him so perfectly it would be easy to believe she had been made just for him.

Arthur felt sleep tugging at him, surrendered to its gentle urging as he adjusted his weight off of the sleeping witch half-under him and sighed happily. No, it wasn't necessarily a bad thing to wake early, and he could probably see to it that his 'morning bother' wasn't so much a bother anymore. Hermione would probably appreciate it, even more than he did...

***

Hermione stretched and grinned at the delicious sensations that still rode her body. After waking her minutes ago with a series of soft kisses across her shoulders, sweet words whispered in her ear, she had agreed it was time to get up and face the day like proper, industrious people. As a result, Arthur was in the shower, and she was seriously considering joining him – until she heard the CRACK of Apparation on the balcony outside and knew that it was Harry, here to deal with his newest, and probably old and rehashed, marital crisis. She sighed and levered herself out of bed, finding a pair of flannel shorts and a cami top, trying not to resent the loss of a perfectly good opportunity to re-acquaint herself with shower sex, see if it had improved since the last, not-wonderful, time she had tried it. Then again, Jarome wasn't even a patch on Arthur.

When she walked into the great room, Hermione saw Harry pacing the floor.

"Oh, good. You're up," he said, glancing at her, but preoccupied with wearing out her rug.

"Nice to see you again," Hermione said drily. "What's on your mind?"

"Gin." Harry paced some more. "I think she's going to leave me."

Hermione blinked. This was far more serious than she had thought. "What gives you that idea?" she asked, voice carefully neutral. She did not want to deal with one of Harry's epic tantrums at the moment. Ron was much better at dealing with those. Then again, she knew damned good and well Harry never dealt well with hers, either. Draco had become her first call when she turned into a rampaging harpy. He handled her sarcasm, creative threats, and cursing by cheering her on, not turning green and muttering about physical impossibilities.

"She said as much. Told me if I couldn't trust her enough to talk to her about what was bothering me, then I couldn't trust her enough to raise our children or anything else." He kicked the couch. "Why the _fuck_ are women so difficult?"

Hermione ignored that last bit. "What is bothering you? You were pissy all day, even though you did a good job hiding it, mostly."

Harry sank down on the couch, buried his head in his hands. "I'm up for promotion at work."

"Most people consider this to be a positive, affirming experience," Hermione said. _Damn. I was right._

"Yeah, but most people don't have to check every Merlin-damned thing twice before knowing if it's because it was earned or if it's some sort of sick proximity-to-power thing. Am I being promoted because I'm good at my job, or am I being promoted because I'm the Boy-Who-Fucking-Well-Didn't-Die-When-Repeated-Attempts-Were-Made?"

"Good one," Hermione said, acknowledging another one of his versions of his hated nickname. "All right, let's try logic, shall we?"

"Hermione if I wanted –"

"If you wanted your ego stroked, you'd go out to some bar and let the witches try to pick you up," she broke into his pity party ruthlessly. "If you wanted commiseration, you would have gone to see Draco or Ron. You wanted something else, something I'm good at. Well, you know my rule, Harry: You asked for it, so you're bloody well going to get it. Now shut up."

"Yes, Professor Granger." His lips twitched in a small smile.

Hermione growled at the moniker granted to her by her boys – now including Draco among them, for many reasons, but mostly because she deemed it high time they put away the crap from school and got to know one another as _people_ , then shoved her decision down their throats in her signature fashion – and reiterated, "Logic. You are good at your job, true?"

"True," Harry acknowledged.

"Closure rate for your team's cases is, what, eighty per cent?" Team cases were the cases he and his partner worked together, usually crimes that dealt with some sort of threats or mild violence at the minimum. The nature of the crimes dictated the investigation would likely involve more danger than a simply graffiti artist tagging the side of a store in Hogsmeade.

"More like eighty-seven, but yeah."

"Your partner is solid?"

"Yeah, but not brilliant. I mean, he's good. Not much for creative thinking, though."

"All right. How does he do on his own? His personal rate?" The personal rate was based on cases accepted and worked alone, mostly nuisance and petty crimes.

"Sixty, maybe."

"And your personal rate?"

"Ninety-two."

"Right. So you're bloody damned good at your job. Two: Does your boss try to suck up to you because you're Harry-bloody-Potter?"

"Doesn't seem to care, really. I've screwed up a few times, and he's reamed my arse for it. I've done really well, especially with that Dolohov capture, and he put a note in my jacket. Other than that, he tells me to keep it legal, sane, and for the love of Circe's bejeweled tits – his phrase, not mine, but I _do_ like it! – not to get myself killed while I'm on his shift."

"Then we've established two things: You are good at what you do, and your boss doesn't give a toss whether you're famous or not, as long as you do your job properly." She paused. "Why is this bothering you? Did he not tell you he was recommending you?"

"No, he told me."

"Well, then?"

"I like where I am. I'm good, yeah, but I'm not taking the wicked ones, not really. I want more time in the field, getting experience with the tough cases. I'm not _ready _for a supervisory position." Harry's voice was beseeching, trying to convince her of his case. It was a good point.__

"Have you told him this? That you'd like to work with a more experienced partner for a bit, work, say, the Major Crimes desk?" 

Harry paused. "Well, no..."

Hermione fixed him with her patented _Are you thick or what?_ look.

"So...I should go tell him that...and then ask Gin to forgive me for being a git?"

"Well, you should tell him that, at least." Hermione took a breath. She hated asking. "Harry, how is it going with Gin?"

"I-I don't know. God, I love her so much, Hermione, but living with her... It was easy at first. Then we had James, then Albus, and after this one, we're taking a break. We think it's a girl...and Gin wants to name her Lily. I'd like that, but I kind of don't want to, either." He sighed. "Gin likes being a mother, but I think she's regretting getting married so soon. We did rush it, after all."

"You had your reasons. Is she still upset with you about all the one-night witches?"

"Yeah, but she won't admit it. Not to me." He ran his hand through his hair, eyes bleak. "She swore she understood, knew why I was worried about...taking things too far with her." He opened his mouth, closed it, then admitted, his voice barely audible, "There were times, early on after the war, that if they hadn't been calling out for more... I was rough with them, 'Mione," he admitted, using that usually-hated nickname. It had come to mean a moment of brutal honesty between them over the past few years, though, and when one of her boys called her 'Mione now, she took it as the sign of trust it was. "Too rough. I think I really hurt some of them, and I _couldn't_ risk Ginny. If I'd hurt her...worse, if she wanted me to stop and I couldn't..."

"You would have," Hermione said, certain of him.

"No," he said, looking up at her, his eyes clear and painfully honest. "There were times that...I couldn't. It was like _he_ was there, in my head again, and I liked leaving bruises and bite marks...liked hearing them moan or scream, and not all from pleasure." He took a breath. "I wanted to do more than that, too, so I found witches who were into that kind of thing."

Hermione took a breath. Honesty in kind was also her way, especially when the confessions cut so deep. 

"You know I had someone, right after. We weren't good to each other. Did sort of the same things. We both gave it and took it." She would never admit how far down that path she had gone, until the pain she'd given and received matched the pain, terror, and desperation that had driven her all those last two years. If she ever did say anything, she could end up in Azkaban, that was how Dark she had gone. Her wizard-friend, the one who'd taken that journey with her, would be in the cell beside hers, because Wizarding law didn't tolerate sex magic, not even when there was no _magic_ involved. They had used pain and what could have been termed pleasure to drain the poison of the war from one another, much the same as Harry and Ron had used one-night witches. "The difference was that neither one of us knew anything, really, about what we were doing, just that we needed to hurt and we needed to be hurt, and then we needed to feel something good. You knew, though, didn't you, what you were looking for?"

"Yeah. Then, sort of. Now... now I do."

"And do you still want that, need it?"

"No. Not interested." He shrugged. "I don't feel that same..."

"Emptiness," Hermione said, nodding. "That void where the pain burrowed in and took over."

"Yeah."

"I don't feel it either, and I don't want any of that again." She took a breath. "I think it's just natural, Harry. Have you ever told her why you didn't want to bed her before you married her?"

"No."

"Tell me, then. Why did you have so many witches in your bed, but refuse the one you loved?"

"Because none of the others mattered. Only she did. Does." He took a breath. "I didn't want Gin to be the first witch I had. I wanted – want – her to be the last. The only one that I ever have who pulls the magic out of me, who nearly tears me apart with hers. The only one I share my bed with every night and every morning...until we have no more nights or mornings together. She's my wife, my lover, my love...my everything." His voice dropped into that Dark tone she hadn't heard since their Horcrux hunt and his burning emerald eyes met Hermione's. "If she wanted to cut my throat, I'd give her the knife."

Hermione nodded. When he looked at her like that, she couldn't breathe. He was utterly himself at this moment, all that was Light and Dark open and lain out before her; power nearly glowing in his eyes, his usual genial mask dropped as he never did for the general public. Not since right after the war, when the pictures of the three of them, all filled with rage and pain and too raw to pretend gentility, were published in the Prophet. 

"I'll talk to her, Harry," Hermione promised. She wasn't doing his dirty work, she was saving Ginny from seeing him like this. Raw. Aching. Too purely _Harry_ to be borne. 

Harry nodded, then swept his eyes down her in one of those looks that noticed everything. "Have a good morning, then, love?" His grin was more than a little knowing and far too cocky for her tastes, especially before caffeine.

"Go fuck yourself, Potter," she snipped.

Harry laughed and headed to the balcony.

"You look good when you're well-shagged, Hermione. You should wear that look more often."

She gave him a rude, two-fingered gesture and his laugh lingered in her ears after the CRACK of his Apparation was gone. He'd left with his mask in place, no doubt to go appease his wife in some way.

That didn't stop her worrying. He'd been here for maybe five minutes, if that, and his mask had fallen. He only let it go around her and Ron and Draco anymore, because he was terrifying when he was _Just Harry_.

Somehow, she doubted that Ginny had ever seen him like that, even when they were making love, even when their emotions were so high they were smothering under the weight of it all.

Hermione turned to join Arthur in the shower – _did she smell like sex?_ she sniffed, but couldn't tell; her own scent eluded her -- and was interrupted by a frantic knocking on the door.

"Bloody buggering bludgers, what now?" she grumped. She opened the door and saw a tall, excited blond nearly vibrating with joy in front of her. "Malfoy," she sighed. "It's too early to be that damned happy." Her gesture took in his radiant self.

"Go fuck yourself, Granger," he replied, nearly chirping he was so happy. "You're to come to dinner tonight at the Manor. Astoria's pregnant, and we're making the announcement tonight."

"Even though you just told me?" she asked, amused.

Draco blinked. "Fuck. Didn't mean to do that." He shrugged. "Well, I won't tell the others, then." He gave her a long look. "You look well-shagged. Must be one hell of a wizard to get your hair to look like that..." He leaned close to her and sniffed once. "Oh, yeah, definitely well-shagged. Bring your wizard, too. Can't wait to meet the man who can put that look all over you."

"What does that mean?" Hermione demanded.

"Just that you look good after you've been shagged into the ground. Hell, I'd know." He grinned at her, unrepentant. Hermione remembered the disaster that was their affair, the one she'd just confessed to having to Harry. The things they'd done went far past the line and into the profane. That was all gone now, and they were simply themselves...and Draco was madly in love with his Astoria, so much that he regularly gave Hermione unwanted, though generally entertainingly phrased, advice about her love life and what she needed. 

"Give him an encore, love." He kissed her cheek. "Got to go. Hate you, Granger." The softness of his eyes and voice made the familiar farewell into the lie it was.

"Go on, then. Hate you, too, Malfoy," she said, her laughter making her words husky.

He grinned at her again, made an obscene suggestion with his fingers, and took off down the hall, too energetic to concentrate on Apparation. 

Hermione shook her head as she shut the door behind him. Now maybe she could get a shower...and wash off whatever it was Draco had been sniffing.

Or maybe he was messing with her head again. He was good at that. 

"Who was at the door?" Arthur asked, toweling his hair and dressed only in a pair of sleep pants. 

Hermione took a breath. This was a conversation she hadn't had with him yet. He knew that Draco had become a friend to her, Harry, and Ron after the war, but he had no idea how close they'd become. He didn't know that Astoria's pregnancy was only because Hermione had researched for them after five miscarriages in three years; that she'd done even more than that when the solution finally came to her hand in the Malfoy library among the Medieval family journals and records. 

"I've been invited to dinner with Draco and Astoria at the Manor." When his eyebrows flew up, she soldiered on. "Lucius and Narcissa will be there, of course, and I'm expecting Ron, Lavender, Harry, and Ginny will be there, too." She took a deep breath. "You're invited as well, as my lover."

"You told Draco..."

"No, he invited my lover." She grinned a little lopsided grin. "Said I looked the well-shagged witch. I accepted, but didn't specifically say we would both be there. It's up to you, Arthur. I know you don't get along with Lucius."

Arthur started to say something, then stopped, eyes troubled. "No, we can go. It's not so bad as that, not anymore." Instead of explaining, he kissed her on the cheek and moved to the kitchen.

Hermione sighed. Well, there would be no shower-sex. That was fine. She could take the time that shower-sex would have taken and spend it taming the curse that was her 'well-shagged' hair.

***

Hermione worked for an hour in her office while Arthur went out to pick up a bottle of wine and one of sparkling cider, the Muggle kind, for their dinner tonight. She'd tried to tell him not to bother, that Lucius and Draco were both complete wine snobs, but he'd refused to appear at the door without the proper hostess gift. It was as close as they'd come to an argument yet. 

Rubbing her eyes and reaching to put the reference book back on the shelf – Muggle law books were so much easier to deal with when they'd been magicked to fit into a three-ring binder and the pages enchanted to the point she could nearly do a verbal search for key terms and have the relevant statutes tabulated for her – and she hated legal searches like these because they were so damned boring. She much preferred a good Potions history hunt, or a genealogical scavenger hunt for a Gringotts vault that seemed to be going on its second century with no claimants. The CRACK outside got her attention, and she sighed again. Few people would just show up on her balcony, and almost all of them were Weasleys, by blood or marriage. The only ones that weren't red-heads, or the spouses of red-heads, were Draco and Astoria. She was about to stand to go greet her visitor when a massive shadow darkened her door.

"Charlie," she said, nodding to him. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, just..." He shook his head. "Look, can we talk?'

Hermione didn't roll her eyes. Obviously they could, but she was going to be nice to her...whatever he was to her now. ‘Friend,’ he'd been for a while, though they weren't really close. They'd little in common and he was just old enough that, even with the changes in his younger siblings' lives, Ron and Ginny weren't part of his usual social circles. George was usually present, the living bridge between the two eldest Weasley children and the two youngest. Still, there was nothing to create friction between them, so she was willing to listen.

"Sure. Tea?"

"Yeah. No. Ah, hell," he grumbled, running his hand through his hair roughly. 

"How about I make tea while you tell me what's going on in that head of yours, then you can decide whether to drink any after you're done?"

"Works," he grunted. 

Lovely. He was in monosyllabic mode. She hated pulling answers out of men when they retreated to grunts and words shorter than seven letters. It mostly just made her inner harpy want to come out to play. Lavender thought it was cute. Merlin, help the girl!

Hermione fixed tea and Charlie started talking. He talked. And talked. And dithered. And finally, finally got to it after the steeping was done. And she'd purposefully made tea the Muggle way, letting the water slowly heat to a near-boil on the range instead of heating it instantly with her wand.

"I'm worried about Sophie. Everyone says she'll be fine, that the baby's not too big, but Hermione, you've seen her! She looks like she swallowed two quaffles and an Expanding Elixir."

"A lot of that is fluid," Hermione said, having gone through this more than once with her friends who had been desperate for every. Single. Bit. Of. Information. About. Pregnancy. That. She. Could. Find. She knew more than she ever wanted to, and, had she been able to have children, it would have been enough to put her off having them. Kidneys for punching bags, bladders for footballs, bouncing off ribs and even cracking them, the need to pee every five minutes, nausea, various problems like atopic pregnancy that were more common in witches than Muggle women – not to mention the crazy hormones that drove every once-sane witch nearly to St. Mungo's psych ward and the wonky magic. No, she knew more than enough. "And yes, she is big, but you also have to remember that she's very close to due. She's near the predicted date, isn't she?"

"Less than two weeks away," Charlie said, hands clenching and unclenching. He had some truly impressive fists. "Midwife said the baby's turned and facing the right way, that everything's fine...but..." The worry and anguish in clear hazel eyes tugged at Hermione's sympathy. 

"You know the process, right?" she asked, not for the first time, but for the first time, she got an affirmative. "Alright, how much weight has she gained?" He murmured back a reply. "About 8-9 lbs. of that is the baby, the rest is fluid and fat – yes, even if she does still look like a half-starved waif, she's gained fat, and the increased size of her breasts. Yes, we've all noticed that she's got considerably _more_ up top than she used to, and, no, it wasn't just you thinking that. She'll lose, oh, nearly thirty of those pounds the day she delivers, especially given her metabolism and a long labour. Really, Charlie, she'll be fine. And no, her hips aren't too small." She debated for a long moment as he looked at her desperate for more reassurance. "Her hips before she got pregnant were nearly as wide as Gin's were, before James. Gin didn't have any problems, and neither will Sophie. The body prepares for the birth, I promise it does."

Charlie nodded, not yet convinced. Hermione decided there was nothing for it. She could spend the next three days telling him over and over, Arthur could give him hints and tips, but he wasn't going to have any of it sink in, not yet.

"Hang on," she said, and disappeared into her office. She returned with another three-ring binder, this one the one identical to the ones she'd prepared for Harry, Ron, and George when they were banging on her door every five minutes. Like them, Charlie was in the depths of first-baby-worries. She had the cure for it, and he wasn't going to love it, but she'd make damned sure he understood it. "Here," she said putting the binder down beside him. "Read this, and put everything in context of your witch being a magical creature. Not only will she be fine as a human female, physically prepared to have the baby, she will have her magic helping her, too. Very few witches are permanently harmed in childbed, and those who, if they had been Muggles, would be in very bad shape or even dead, have the magic to support and sustain them."

Charlie looked at the binder as if it were a reincarnation of Nagini.

"Look, you say you know the process, and I'm betting that's from your work with magical creatures, especially dragons." He nodded. "Then trust me to give you what you need to make the connexions you need to make to Sophie. Now," Hermione lifted the teapot and smiled. "Would you like some tea?"

Shaking his head, Charlie held out his teacup. He grinned at her. 

"I came over here looking for some moral support, and you gave me homework!"

Hermione sniffed. "Be glad I didn't make you do what I made Ron and Harry do – six feet of parchment for each trimester. Then again, you've only started getting antsy about it just recently, haven't you?" Charlie chuckled and nodded, curious about how this little witch could cow two stubborn, larger, magically gifted males into doing homework. "They were positively obnoxious about it all, every five minutes, banging on the door or Flooing over, checking on everything...even what sexual positions were safe! Honestly!" She sipped her tea and grinned. "George was even worse, though. I had to threaten him with a Quidditch bat, a Sonorous charm screeching at him every sixty seconds that Angelina was perfectly fine, and a half-dozen hexes before he agreed to do his homework." She smirked. "He calmed right down, though, after the first few chapters. Angelina sent me flowers every day for about six weeks."

Charlie laughed and finished his tea, then asked, "So, you and Dad, eh?"

"Yes, Arthur and me. Is there anything you'd like to ask?" She went ahead and opened the conversation up fully, knowing he'd be one to take her up on it, even if no one else was willing to just put it out there. 

"No, just...be good to each other, alright?"

Hermione smiled. "Alright."

Charlie picked up the binder, it was heavier than it looked, and wrapped Hermione in a hug, taking care not to crush her. 

"Thank you, Poppet," he said, calling her that ridiculous nickname he'd come up with when she first met him in fourth year. He'd called her a tiny one, no bigger than a child's poppet, and then the name stuck. Given the number of things she'd called him, usually while throwing something at him while he dodged and laughed, she figured it was a fair trade. Even if he did make it a point to irritate her almost every time they met. When she'd asked why, he'd said she looked like a miniature Hungarian Horntail, and he swore that she'd breathed fire at him more than once. At that point, she'd known she'd just have to take the man as he was, and, thankfully, she didn't have do it often. Now that he was married to Sophie, though, she found him less irritating and more adorable. His tiny wife had him wrapped around her pinky, and he cheerfully admitted it.

Charlie CRACKED away, leaving Hermione to clean up the tea, smiling about how much the dragonkeeper had changed...and how much he hadn't.

Not ten minutes after Charlie left, Bill came by. Hermione dragged out the teapot again, held it up.

"Nah, just going to be quick," he said, grinning. He could smell the tea in the air, and...yes, Charlie. "Wanted to talk to you yesterday, but didn't get the chance."

"Alright," Hermione sat at the kitchen table and waited.

"I'll put it straight, Hermione," he stated, eyes serious and kind. "I wasn't sure what to think when I heard about you and Dad. Now that I've seen you together, though, it makes sense." He paused, noting her eyes widen and her eyebrows rise in surprise. "Try not to hurt each other, though. Dad is..." He paused. "He's more than I knew, than any of us knew. Maybe we were good for him, what with the changes family life makes to a wizard, maybe not. Either way, he's happy, and he looks younger than he has in a while. He's a good man."

"You didn't have to tell me that," Hermione said, not smiling. Bill was serious. "As for having more to his life than work and family – everyone has a past, and it's not always pretty." She paused. "That's it, isn't it? You wonder why he never said anything about the time before you lot were born."

Bill nodded. "Yeah. It was all some big secret...or maybe Mum wouldn't let him say anything..."

"Or maybe it was something that you didn't need to know then," Hermione said softly. "I know that Harry and Ron plan to be honest with their kids about the war, but they're not going to lay it all out there while the kids are young. In fact, they're not planning to tell them much until they're getting ready for Hogwarts, and then only the minimum."

Bill thought for a minute, seeing the logic. "I can understand that, but it's not the same, is it?"

"Parents had lives first, then they had children. They had hopes and dreams – and some of them got what they wanted, some didn't, and put it all away because they had something more important." She shrugged. "I've talked with a few of the older years, and they admit they're not keen on their kids ever finding out some of the things they did." She snorted. "Hell, I don't have children, and I know I'm not going to tell any of the kids the whole of my life, not during or after the war, for certain. Bits about work, school, and the like, yeah. I'll tell them those things...but not about the basilisk or the number of times we nearly died when we should have been safe at school."

After a long minute, Bill rose from the table and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "I'll never call you Mum, even if you do marry Dad one day," he teased. He couldn't help the devil in him that made him such a good Curse-Breaker and gave him the reputation of being Wicked William Weasley. "Even if you don't marry him, keep up the good work. You smell...satisfied."

Hermione groaned and buried her face in her hands, not looking up as Bill walked out to the balcony and CRACKED away.

She didn't hear the door open and close. She was still too busy trying to get her cheeks to stop burning.

"Hermione? Everything alright?" came that wonderfully kind voice. Arthur was home again.

"Fine. Charlie stopped by for some literature about childbirth, then Bill came by." She lifted her head, hoping her blush wasn't obvious.

"You're blushing – what did he say?" 

Hermione groaned. "Charlie, not much other than worry about Sophie. Bill...mentioned scent." Red eyebrows lifted, and Hermione knew she was going to tell him anyway. May as well get it over with. "He said I smelled quite satisfied. There, happy?"

A slow smile started to grow on Arthur's face. When it was a full grin, he was standing next to her, his hand cupping her cheek as she looked up at him, not shying away from any of him or his children. "You have no idea. Quite satisfied, hmm?"

Hermione groaned.

"This is going to be a thing, now, isn't it?"

"Definitely," Arthur promised, pulling her up and into his arms. Hermione buried her face in his chest and sighed happily. "Care to be even more satisfied?" he asked her, only half teasing.

Hermione leaned back and looked up at those beautiful eyes. 

"Sounds good to me," she replied, tiptoeing to press a kiss against his lips.

They didn't even leave the kitchen, and Hermione was definitely more satisfied than she had been before.

Arthur didn't see the wicked smile she pressed against his chest as he held her in the aftermath. The next time she knew she was going to see Bill, and not too soon or she'd tip her hand, she'd make sure he got a nose full.

_Quite_ satisfied, indeed.

***

After a pleasantly uneventful dinner, one in which conversation was light and pleasant, the talk inevitably about children and adorable little baby bits and bobs, the ladies retired to the salon and the men to Lucius's private study. Hermione managed not to grin at the old-fashioned split, but thought it would be a good idea after all, since she could just feel some of the things Astoria wanted to talk about with Ginny and Lavender -- things that would make the men there cringe. Things that made her cringe, truthfully. Not for the first time she felt a bit of relief that she'd never have to deal with...all of the pregnancy things. And childbirth was really more than a little terrifying, when she thought about it, which she tried so very hard not to do. 

Between the current conversation and having taking Ginny aside to talk in a closet a little ways down the hall when she threatened to start in on her petulant brat routine a bit earlier in the evening, Hermione felt that the evening had gone quite well.

Music was playing in the background and the mothers-to-be were chatting happily about some aspect of month four – the horny months, if Hermione recalled the literature correctly. She was more than happy to pass the time talking with Narcissa about anything other than the respective husbands' prowess in keeping them satisfied.

"There's a concert next week in the Magical Underground Music Hall," Narcissa mentioned, "Celestina Warbeck. Are you planning to go?"

"Lord, no," Hermione said, shuddering. "And if I hear 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love' again, I'll scream."

Narcissa blinked, surprised at the vehement tone. "I take it you're not a fan, then?"

"Honestly, no. I much prefer Muggle music, even though it is hard to get reception in Wizarding parts of town. The abuse of metaphor and the flowery hyperbole is much less, most of the time. And the beats are much more varied. Oh," she added, almost as an afterthought, "and the instrumentation doesn't sound like, well, the band purchased everything at a hardware store."

Narcissa laughed. "Oh, but Muggle music can't be all straightforward, can it? Surely they cloak meanings and intentions?"

"Well, yes, but they tend to be more honest with the marketing. I mean, the 'Cauldron' song, it's billed as a great love song, one that anyone in the family can sing along to, because it's all about brewing a love as a potion, right?"

"Of course," Narcissa replied, wondering what this fascinating young woman she'd gotten to know over the past three years would interpret it as. What else could it be, really, other than the story of love between two people?

"Well, it's not." Hermione took a breath, knowing she was about to commit blasphemy, if not outright sacrilege, given the honours heaped on that stupid, annoying song. She didn't hear the girls go quiet or the men walking into the room. "Besides being a disingenuous metaphor, it's a bloody lie. 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love' isn't a love song. It's a song about an orgasm. All that about pouring heat into the cauldron and stirring until it comes out just right? Why not just sing 'Make me come on your cock, you hot stud,' instead? It's considerably more hon...es...t..." 

Hermione looked around, saw the jaws of the women and her friends dropped low, and groaned. 

"Bugger."

She closed her eyes and waited for at least Ginny to start in on her about defaming Molly's favourite song. 

What she heard instead was the distinctive laughter of two men.

She cracked her eyes open and saw both Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley laughing so hard they had to hold one another up while everyone else in the room, Narcissa included, stared at her as if she had grown two heads – no, that would be about normal. She didn't know what they were staring at her like, but she knew it wasn't happiness and normalcy.

She was never, _ever_ going to live this one down.


	4. When the Past Bites a Wizard's Ass

Ch. 4 When the Past Bites a Wizard's Ass

Arthur and Hermione had been together for nearly five months now, and they were still quite happy. Arthur had started talking to an old friend again, and work was going well -- no major problems in nearly two months. They were at The Burrow for Sunday dinner, the children curled up in bed early, thanks to the late November evenings, and they had a holiday for nearly the entire week, thanks to the institution of Muggle Appreciation Week, a week set aside twice a year, once in spring, once in winter, where the majority of the Wizarding World enjoyed Muggle-style foods and drinks, games, histories, and shows all throughout the U.K. Even Ireland had adopted the holiday, and given the usual relationship between the two islands, that was saying something positive about the brainchild of Andromeda Tonks and an old friend of hers, Loralai Higginsbottom, a Muggle enthusiast who had lived for an extended period of time in New Orleans, one of the most mixed Wizarding-Muggle cities in the world. 

"So," Sophie said, grinning as she came downstairs from nursing her son, her husband right behind her. He usually sat with her while she nursed little Frederick, just to talk to her and spend some quiet time with wife and child. "What's the decision? Are we playing a Muggle game or not?"

Most of the room chimed in, including the Malfoys, who had been invited after several family conversations. Narcissa and Lucius were relaxed among the group, surprising Hermione and almost everyone there but Arthur -- she'd have to find out why later. Draco and Astoria, who was now showing at five months, laughed, voting for the Muggle game.

"Well," Hermione said, thinking. "There are several possibilities. There's Charades, Rumors, several board or card games, or -- "

"Is there something we could do as teams?" Ginny interjected, wanting a little competition for the evening.

"Balloon volleyball would work," Harry offered. "It's a little more active," he grinned at his wife, "and it looks like someone wants to move around a bit more."

"I don't know," Hermione murmured. "Oh! How about Change Seats?" she offered.

Everyone looked at her blankly. "We need chairs for everyone who wants to play, and...let's see, put them in a circle..." She went on to explain the rules, which were very similar to musical chairs, but without the music and with some very wicked little twists. The person in the middle of the chairs would ask everyone who was facing inward and sitting down 'Do you love your neighbour?' Affirmative answers would mean asking the next person, negative answers could be phrased in two ways: a simple no, in which case the blighter who wasn't loved had to get up and run around, looking for another seat (and wouldn't likely get it), or a complex no, in which case the answer was phrased, 'Yes, except those who...' and fill in a description. At that point everyone described had to get up and run around the circle and find a new seat. "And we can put on team hats or something; but no calling by hats."

"How will we know who wins?" Ginny complained.

"Astoria will have to keep score," Hermione said, motioning to the witch. "After all, it can get pretty rough, and Asti's the only one who can't handle a bit of rough-and-tumble right now."

"All right," Astoria said, grinning. "And I'll put in time limits, too, for each round. Let's say, nine rounds, determined by time limit, and whichever team has the most successful relocations at the end of a round wins the round, with the most rounds won at the end winning the game."

"What if we tie?" George asked, curious.

"Then we'll do the Hokey-Pokey and whoever's left standing when we go for a seat, well, their team forfeits that round to the other," Hermione said, laughing. For a game that was already a bit ridiculous, this was going to be quite silly. "Oh! And no magic, except for our score- and time-keeper, Madame Astoria."

Astoria bowed solemnly. "Right. Whoever uses magic, even accidentally, will be...given blue sparkly hair and forced to sing 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.'"

Half the room burst into maniacal laughter, the other half looked confused, and Hermione groaned.   
   
"I hate you, Asti."

"I know, Hermie," came the unrepentant response. "Now, set up the room!" In a few minutes, the couches and large furniture were cleared and a large circle of individual chairs filled the room. Figurines and decorations had been cleared away, except for the pictures on the walls, which it was deemed unnecessary to move. "There we go. A chalkboard for me," a nifty bit of Transfiguration changed one section of wall into a chalkboard and a cheese cracker into a stick of chalk. Astoria wrote out two team names, the Greens and the Reds -- the groans made her laugh. "Oh, suck it up! Whoever's wearing a green ribbon around your wrist, you're on the Greens. Whoever's got red, you're one of the Reds. You didn't even notice, did you, because I'm _good_ like that." She smirked as several rude gestures were sent her way from her husband and his friends. "So, line it up ladies and gents, and I'll zap the first one for the middle with a quick Jelly-Legs Jinx while you go for chairs, alright?"

"And GO!" Astoria cried, and the mad dash for chairs began. Ginny was the first in the middle, and her ribbon was a lovely green.

The game commenced, with random time-calls from Astoria, much giggling and laughing, and several wicked-fast dashes for an empty seat. Nearly everyone used the complex ‘no’ when they were answered the question, which left everyone breathless after only three rounds. Round seven needed a tie-breaker, so Hermione and Harry tried not to choke with laughter as the Wizarding folk mangled the simple children's song and into something completely unrecognizable and utterly graceless. The laughter resulted in Harry, team Red, not being able to move quickly enough to get the seat next to Lucius, and Hermione, team Green, snagging it mostly by virtue of standing next to it when she fell over from laughing so hard.

"That was the worst rendition of that song I've ever heard," she howled as Harry recovered enough to crawl to the center of the circle. "There's no nose-hairs in, verse, really! I swear it...Angelina, was that your verse?"

Angelina sniggered. "It's been so long since I heard it, I just made something up."

It took a few more minutes before everyone calmed down enough to play the game again. No points were deducted for Hokey-Pokey fouls.

"And TIME!" Astoria cried, this last round putting the Green team ahead by one change and one round. "Green wins!"

The Greens cheered and the Reds cheered, all tired enough now to settle down for a more relaxed and decidedly less noisy set of Muggle board games, including Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly (Lucius and Draco were enamoured of the idea), and Clue, which drew Bill, Arthur, Hermione, and Ron over. Laughter, coffee, tea, and a renewed sense of appreciation for such inventive, simple, unenchanted games flowed easily through the room.

"You seem to be doing well, Dad, what with the Malfoys here," Bill said softly, knowing only those at the Clue table would hear, and so far, there were only three beside himself. Sophie was having trouble making up her mind, and Ginny wanted to try her luck at Snakes and Ladders, while Astoria debated with Narcissa whether they should play their husbands in a game that dealt in property and cash or if they should try something that wouldn't spark hurt feelings later – especially if the ladies won.

"We weren't always enemies," Arthur said, finally speaking about the old enmity. Hermione hadn't pushed him, for which he was grateful, but Bill was cut from a different cloth. "Once, long ago, we were friends." At the stunned expressions, he added softly, "Not many people think of it, because of the way we fell out with one another shortly before I married Molly, but there was a time when seeing one of us meant the other was nearby."

No one had time to say anything to that, since Narcissa and Sophie joined the Clue table and Ginny and Astoria went for the game of chance and counting practice.

The rousing and rowdy game of Changing Seats was mostly forgotten, the furniture back in place with several additional little tables for the games. Halfway through her game, Fleur noticed one of the pictures hanging crooked from one little nail, a near casualty of the parlour game that had not been noticed before. 

"Oh, Beel!" she called, but it was too late, and her wand was across the room. The picture fell to the floor next to Sophie with a startling crash, the frame breaking and two small boxes falling out of the oversize frame.

Sophie picked up the frame, repaired it, rehung it, and took a long look at the boxes. As she turned, several things fluttered from the frame, enlarging on the way down. She bent down, picked up the slippery, thick papers and flipped them over.

Her jaw dropped. Hermione, sitting on the other side of her, leaned over, and she couldn't help it when her eyes popped wide in surprise.

"Well slap my arse and fuck me sideways!" Hermione yelped. Several people choked, then stared at the wide-eyed pair of witches. Harry, Ron, and Draco shared a look. Whatever this was, it was going to be one hell of a revelation. The last time they'd heard Hermione say something like that had been after Rita Skeeter's article for Lucius's trial – an article that _hadn't_ utterly denigrated them, butchered the truth, or veered from real, honest journalism. Needless to say, it had been quite some time.

"What on earth?" Bill asked, standing and starting to go over to them.

Sophie squealed suddenly and shoved everything into Hermione's hands. She ran over and hugged Lucius, then Arthur, bouncing up and down and not quite able to form coherent sentences yet. 

"Has everyone gone mad?" Lucius asked, shocked at the extreme behaviour from the witches.

"To Lucky and Thor...we'll miss you terribly, love the Ballycastle Banshees?" Hermione read, eyes still wide. "Is this...OH MY GOD!" She stared at Arthur, then at Lucius.

"I'm not the only Quidditch slut in the family!" Sophie crowed as everyone crowded around Hermione to see exactly what she was looking at. Wizarding pictures showed, in detail, one of the many, many transgressions of youth made by a carefree Arthur Weasley and his closest friend and Curse-Breaking partner, Lucius Malfoy. It involved every witch on the Ballycastle Banshees – eleven of them including reserves – shortly after their showcase tryouts for Seeker (Lucius) and Beater (Arthur). Showcase tryouts were not for the team showcasing the talent, in this case the all-witch Ballycastle Banshees, but were used to highlight those who were able to play professional Quidditch for other teams – in this case teams that allowed males or were all-male – to choose their new players.

"Is that even possible?" Lavender breathed, turning one picture round and round, trying to see exactly what was going on -- and blushing furiously when she did. "I suppose it is. Oh, my."

"Dad?" Ginny said, eyes wide. "Is that...Lucius? And...how many witches are in that picture?"

Sophie wrapped one arm around Lucius and the other around Arthur, eyes bright and happy, smile huge as she asked them, "Which do you prefer, Keeper, Chaser, Beater, or Seeker?"

Arthur and Lucius looked at one another across the little witch's profile. They nodded to one another, Lucius closed his eyes and waited for his wife's voice to either forgive or condemn him, and Arthur rested his forehead on his palm. He had never thought anyone would find out particulars about his past, about the wild young buck he'd been over thirty years ago. He should have known.

Arthur, surrounded as he was by his children and his lover, faced with aspects of his wicked ways before marrying Molly in no less than wizarding photographs and two boxes of varied mementoes, felt every eye in the room focussing on him. He managed to put everything he was feeling about having his checkered past rise up and bite him firmly on his ass in one word, a word none of his children or their spouses had ever heard him utter: 

"Fuck."

***

Hermione gathered the pictures and quite firmly put them face-down on the table in front of Arthur, the two small boxes joining them as paperweights. She said nothing more. It wasn't her place to speak of his past, really, and it wasn't her business. He was healthy, so she wasn't worried about catching some sort of social disease, and why she kept calling STDs by that term, she never really knew. He was single back then, and now again, legally speaking, so he wasn't running about on his wife. She was quite certain he wasn't seeing any other witches, so he wasn't stepping out on her, either. Arthur's past was his to tell or conceal, just as hers was. Who was she to ask when he had only questioned whether or not she wanted children? He had never even asked if Ron or Harry had been her lovers. Then again, the boys had probably told him, but he'd respected her past. She could respect his. Not everyone in the room shared her live-and-let-live philosophy, though.

"What the hell, Dad?" Ginny demanded, looking upset. "That was you...and a bunch of witches...and what about Mum? And you were doing...all of that...with him there!" Murmurs and various comments flew around the gathering, mostly from red-haired Weasleys, but one or two from disappointed (or thrilled) wives. Narcissa and Astoria were oddly silent, though Draco said something similar to his father.

"Enough," Arthur said, voice authoritarian and eyes tired. "Sit down. I suppose it's time you learned a bit more about my past," he glanced at Lucius, "and Lucius's. I won't answer but one question, so it had better count." The warning was taken in the spirit it was given. "And I won't answer questions about various witches or the like." 

After a few moments, everyone was seated at their game tables, the games forgotten, and Lucius and Arthur were the center of attention. Arthur looked over at Lucius and there seemed to be a silent conversation between them. Finally, Lucius turned and addressed the gathered group.

"To begin with, Arthur and I met on the Hogwarts Express, and we were first years together. Even though we were Sorted into different Houses, we got along well. We seemed to draw out the best in one another, and, even when we competed in Quidditch, we were friends." Lucius paused. "We played pranks, studied, socialized, all of that, together. Even during the summers, we would spend inordinate amounts of time together, and, after graduation, we were both invited to try out for professional Quidditch teams at the Drafting Showcase. I tried out for Seeker, Arthur for Beater. We weren't offered slots on the same team, and my knee prevented me from accepting any professional contracts, so we both declined and went off in search of other employment."

"We found it at Weisengales', London branch," Arthur continued, picking up the tale almost seamlessly. "We apprenticed as Curse-Breakers and trained as a pair, a team, not just leads and assistants. Team training takes longer, and, well, it's not easy to trust someone that deeply. Lucius and I had become so close, though, it was second nature. We became one of the better teams working for Weisengales' after we graduated. Molly was a second-year during my seventh, and Narcissa was..."

"Also a second-year," Lucius confirmed.

"Right. No, there was no romance at Hogwarts, especially not with some of the older girls and what they were wearing." Arthur grinned. "It was the sixties, and the styles were...interesting." He _didn't_ mention that there were a few places a wizard and witch could manage some real privacy, and some witches, especially the half-bloods and Muggleborns, weren't kept from enjoying a bit of in and out by a chastity charm. There were ways around for the purebloods, too, but the best of it, well, that was a strict no-no. On the other hand, the hymen was the only thing really protected by the chastity charms, so he'd learned much more than expected at Hogwarts, and certainly not all of it was on the approved curriculum. 

"Mm, you forget. Narcissa and I were formally betrothed when she received her Hogwarts letter, so the courting had begun. It was limited to conversations over tea at the Three Broomsticks or...whatever that little tea shop was in Hogsmeade, and then only once a month. In the Common Room, well, there was little socialization between us." Lucius's voice was matter-of-fact, and he was not inclined to sound apologetic.

"Well, we had little in common, and I certainly didn't need tutoring," Narcissa added, noting the surprise on the faces of the younger generation. "Remember the times. Witch's Lib was not even a whisper, and even if it was, the contracts were signed and unbreakable." She shrugged. "We simply talked and sipped tea, though I recall there was more sipping than speaking that first year. Lucius and I did fall in love, though, eventually." She smiled at her husband, then smugly to the group. "And no, I don't begrudge the other witches. I'm the one reaping the benefits, after all."

Arthur sighed. "And Molly and I didn't meet again until about a year after she'd graduated, so no, there was no school romance for me. We certainly weren't betrothed," he grinned, "not given my mother's, ah, predilection for pissing off family." Several chuckles were heard, most recalling the blasted Black tapestry, Arthur's mother disowned for her disgraceful elopement with a blood-traitor Weasley. "So she simply continued the trend and refused to tie me to anyone, though there were still offers, despite the whispers of being a blood-traitor." He returned to his tale. "So, Lucius and I worked together, travelling for Weisengales' and breaking curses all over Europe, South Africa, some parts of the Middle East, even the Caribbean and the Bahamas, for -- what, eight years?"

"Something like that," Lucius said. "The dates weren't important, just the work...and the play." Lucius chuckled. "And we did play as hard as we worked." 

"God bless the Isle of Wight," Arthur sighed, grinning at his old friend, raising his coffee mug.

"And willing witches with wicked wishes," Lucius finished their old toast, obligingly clinking his teacup against the mug and they both sipped. 

"The Isle of Wight?" Hermione asked, frowning. "That wasn't until 1970." The dates weren't adding up.

"No, the Isle was going strong as a Wizarding party starting in 1962. It only stopped in 1974, after Voldemort started gather some serious followers and considerably more power," Lucius corrected. "Wait, you've heard of the Isle of Wight? In 1970? A Muggle Isle of Wight...gathering?"

"Huge concert, free love, the like," Hermione confirmed, "a lot like the American Woodstock, if I understand correctly." News of that concert had spread far and wide, even in the Wizarding world.

"Huh," Arthur said. "I guess they pulled it off. They said they wanted to try it on the Muggle side, see if they could turn a profit..."

"Wait...the Isle of Wight was known as a place to, ah, party even then? I've been there," Bill said, "and that was in the late '80s."

"That particular isle has a long history of wickedness and celebrations," Narcissa chimed in, "as does the Isle of Mann. I'm not surprised...though I've never been..." Her voice was almost wistful. Lucius did not look pleased at that, but said nothing.

"Wait, how did the two of you start talking again, and what happened?" This from Ron, who was not about to let the happy-easy relationship information go that easily.

"That's why you asked me how Draco and Ron and I got to be friends...and why you wanted a copy of that book!" Harry said, piecing together a brief, odd conversation and everything he'd just seen. 

"Yes," Arthur said, nodding to Hermione. "And thank you."

"You gave him a copy?" Ron asked Hermione.

"No," she answered.

"I did," Harry said at the same time.

"What book?" Sophie asked, curious, not knowing the long history of enmity between Weasleys and Malfoys -- well, not as long as most of the people present knew, but longer enough to be considered a feud.

Harry explained.

***

_Hermione shouted, catching all three rebellious men by one ankle and hanging them up by her ceiling in her little Star Crossing (Aurora side) flat._

_"Now, boys, listen carefully. Oh, bloody hell," she sighed, then Silenced them, unable to hear herself over their indignant yelling and filthy threats directed, luckily for them, not at her. "Now, boys, listen carefully. I'm sick of the shite, I'm sick of the hate and rivalry, and I'm sick of pretending I don't love you all dearly. So, you're going to do exactly what I tell you, and you'll agree to do it without drama or provoking one another...or I'll leave you like this until you pass out, let you down, revive you, and repeat until you DO agree. Are we clear?"_

_Three upside-down nods indicated they were very clear -- and that they believed her. She was determined right now, not pissed off. Not yet. Avoiding a truly pissed-off Hermione was high on their "to do" lists._

_"Good. Now, here's how we're going to get to know one another. We're going to establish a book club. You're going to take a copy of this book, and the ink I got for you, and you're going to read and make notes on the first, oh, five chapters. It's Friday night, so on Thursday of next week, we'll all get together after work and discuss the book, and then we'll have dinner." She looked at them all, still hanging by one ankle and all more than a little flushed by now, but none of them were in danger of passing out for a good ten minutes or so._

_Hermione waited patiently while her boys mulled over their choices. Hang upside down and pass out repeatedly before agreeing to her terms, or just agree to her terms and get on with it. She was certain that they believed they'd still be able to hate one another freely, so long as they didn't say anything. Devious witch that she was, she'd chosen a book that would cut deep for all of them -- a Muggle classic of science fiction, Ender's Game. When Harry read it, oh, how she wanted to be a fly on the wall..._

_She neglected to mention that, when all four books (hers included, of course) were in close proximity, they would automatically update with all notes and comments. She'd made several changes to the books themselves to accommodate the multitude of notes, too, enlarging the book so the margins were well over three inches wide on all sides of the text, which was still Muggle paper-back size and centered on the page. The inks were also colour coded: green for Harry, silvery-grey for Draco, blue for Ron, and brown for herself. She was fortunate that they had such distinctive eye colours when she chose the inks. Of course it was intentional, though she'd play it off as a grand cosmic accident because she really enjoyed these little private jokes. Colour-coding by eye or hair was always fun, though she had, more than once, given polka-dotted presents to various Weasleys that used the same freckle patters as the bridges of noses. Yes, she probably did need some sort of mental intervention, but it didn't hurt anyone and she was entertained. Where was the harm?_

_The first meeting had been a revelation, especially because Draco and Harry had noted and commented almost exactly the same things, with some differences in phrasing and some differences of perspective, which was not unexpected, given the differences in sides during the war. Ron had shared about two-thirds of the same observations, and included several more that dealt with being one of the youngest children in a family. Hermione had had a completely different take, even from Harry, because of her own background. All of them associated themselves deeply with Ender, though each one had a "favourite" among the others. Hermione identified with Petra, and Ron with Bean. Draco, however, deviated from that particular group and identified heavily with Ender's benefactor and tormenter, Graff._

_If the first meeting had been a revelation, the next one had been commiseration run rampant, and the third, while agonizing and heartbreaking, cathartic. They'd continued their book club, though they didn't meet as frequently anymore, and expanded their choices to books chosen by each of the foursome. They'd continued, not as simply participants in a diversion, but as friends, as close as any could be, since they'd all lived the same experiences, though in different contexts. Harry and Draco found themselves to be, not two sides of the same coin, but the metal slip itself, imprinted on both sides in the same ways by the same dies._

***

"...and, well, that was all," Harry finished up, grinning at Hermione. "And she's got a wicked Levicorpus, so I wouldn't suggest tempting her."

"The book let us get back in touch, and we're talking again," Arthur shook his head, grinning. "Obviously, yes, Lucius I know. The way we fell out, though, wasn't as dramatic as you'd think. We knew what was happening, and Voldemort was really starting to gain some traction about 1968 or so, and by 1970, Lucius was being threatened and I was preoccupied with Moll. We both left Weisengales’ in May for less dangerous jobs, me for the Ministry, Lucius for his father's business and marriage to Narcissa." Arthur cleared his throat and admitted, "Moll was already five months along, and we'd just married in April." Eyes widened and jaws dropped as the kids managed the maths. "Narcissa and Lucius had married in June of 1969, right after she graduated, and then he was well and truly in a bad spot. It didn't come to a head until May of 1970, though."

"Whatever you may have thought of me," Lucius said softly, resolutely looking at no one in the room, "I assure you, my father was a thousand times worse. He was a vicious, evil man and, had I not joined him and his precious cause," he spat the word, "he would have killed me, taken Narcissa to his bed -- and I shudder to think what she would have endured at his hands. Draco – or whatever child he had managed to sire – would have been raised with all of the brutality my father was capable of," he looked around grimly then, "and I would not have wished that on Voldemort himself."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked his father softly.

Lucius gave his son a long look, then closed his eyes. He did not want to answer that.

Arthur nudged him with an elbow and said, “An example would be better than an explanation, I think.” Lucius nodded, but did not immediately speak. No one else did. There was something old and painful that had crept into the room with them, something that Arthur understood and no one else there did, not even Narcissa.

"I mentioned my knee earlier, why I couldn't play professional Quidditch,” he finally said. “It is courtesy of Abraxas Malfoy, because I embarrassed him when I was about nine. One of his business acquaintances asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. I answered honestly that I wanted to play Seeker for a professional Quidditch team, maybe even play for England. The man laughed, so did my father -- until the man left. My father dragged me out of his study and pitched me down the grand staircase. When I came to, he crushed my knee under his heel and cursed the joint so it would never heal properly, telling me that I would never disgrace him or his name with such a base career. The curse grafted to the bone, and not even house-elf healing magics could cleanse it. This," he palmed the top of his snake-headed cane, "is not some sort of poncey fashion statement and wand-holster. It is a very real cane, and I have used it or something like it since seventh year after a bludger broke my tibia in the final match of the season."

"Sorry about that," Arthur murmured. "Wasn't aiming at you."

"Not your fault the damned Snitch led me straight into the path of your hit," Lucius replied. He continued his explanation. "So, no, I would not risk Narcissa to my _father's_ tender mercies. Sometime in January, I spoke with Arthur, and we decided a very public falling-out would be necessary to protect Narcissa...and myself. The few months after I married 'Cissy were not...easy. The work was not terribly difficult, but the pressures from Voldemort and my father were already increasing, so I wasn't concentrating as much on the Breaking”

“That made the job even more dangerous, and we both took some nasty hits that we really should have been able to counter,” Arthur added. “So, we came up with the public ruse to preserve Luc's standing with his father, keep Narcissa safe, and distance Molly and myself -– out of sight, out of mind, as it were. We managed it, and after, it was too dangerous to communicate. As time went by, it was easier to let the lie become the truth...and that is what you all have come to know.

"It didn't hurt that Molly's family and the Malfoys were, ah, disinclined to friendly relations, when they acknowledged one another at all, or that I'd been around Abraxas enough to -- and I am sorry to say this, Luc -- to see the father in the son," Arthur added. "I never meant to cause any true enmity between our families, but as time went by and it was clear that Lucius was tangled up in some very nasty business, well." 

"It also didn't help that I was jealous over your family. Narcissa and I managed, barely, to have Draco, and there were several unsuccessful attempts before he was born. Prematurely.” It was clear that Lucius was still far back in the past, his eyes distant. His voice dropped to a whisper, a mere thread of sound, “There were nights, that I would simply watch him as he slept, terrified that he wouldn't see the morning. His lungs were so weak..." Lucius shook off the memories and gave his old friend a disgruntled look. "But seven, Arthur! It's positively indecent!"

Arthur just laughed. "You delicate pouf," he teased.

Lucius sniffed. "It's ponce. I much prefer a witch's curves to any wizard's arse."

Several of those gathered had thought it safe to sip some tea. They were wrong.

"Beg pardon. Ponce." Arthur and Lucius shared a look, then grinned at each other as sputtering and hacking coughs from mis-swallowed and spewed drinks filled the room. When they recovered, one of the multitude gathered finally braved the point.

"Well, then, I suppose it's time for our _one_ question," Bill said, chuckling. Arthur gave him a look and he nodded graciously. "The one question about any part of it that wasn't needed for clarification, that is." Arthur rolled his eyes and nodded, conceding the point.

"I've got it!" Sophie said, grinning. "So...Lucky and Thor...where did you get those nicknames?"

Both men groaned. 

"Well, it is a good question," Lavender chimed in. 

"Would it have to do with Quidditch," George asked, grinning, "given you both played? Seeker for Lucius and Beater for Dad, I believe it was?"

"No," Lucius sighed. He was blushing. Arthur was decidedly red as well. "It's rather...personal."

Eyes lit up and wicked grins spread around the room.

"Thor is the Norse god of thunder," Hermione finally came in on the conversation. "With an impressive...hammer."

Arthur mumbled something in response. 

"I didn't quite catch that," she teased him.

"One of the Banshees said...oh, bloody hell, said I brought the thunder to her bed." He was positively glowing he was blushing so hard. Nosy brats!

"And I was, ah, fortunate in anatomical proportions," Lucius added, his fair complexion not as red, but certainly as bright as Arthur's.

Narcissa grinned wickedly at her husband and his friend. "Oh, I've heard the stories...Lucky, Luscious Lucius...and King Arthur."

The floor was not very cooperative, despite the blushing wizards' repeated wishes that it would open up and swallow them, just to get them away from the raucous laughter and decidedly naughty comments running 'round the room. Hermione refrained from adding to the commentary, instead leaning in to murmur something to Arthur while she reached for their coffee mugs.

"Buck up, Thor," Hermione whispered to her lover wickedly. "I promise I'll ride the lightning tonight...you just bring that hammer...and the thunder." She nipped his earlobe and picked up their coffee mug, making the others think she was whispering words of commiseration and understanding and providing a refill of caffeine, not seducing the man right in front of them with her wicked words.

Arthur cursed fluently under his breath. 

Oh, the witch would _pay_ for that one...and he knew one surefire way to make her love every second of it!  
*** 


	5. When Is It Too Far?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've said this before on a different fic: I don't warn. Ever. I expect readers to adult while reading, and if that is not possible, I expect them to child and click away immediately. Writing is a journey, one undertaken to slowly expose the entirety of the tale, the characters, and reading, the converse of writing, is undertaken to take that journey. Imagine for a moment, your favourite epic tale, complete with a map and warnings every time something character- or world-building was going to happen. Just...no. The Hobbit with warnings. The Lord of the Rings with warnings. Alien with warnings. Just...no. The stories would be dead. Emotionally destroyed. The journey spoiled. Everything about it devastated. And so I do not warn. I don't presume to be even close to Tolkein in skill or tales told, but I do respect the story that is in me, working its way out. Quite frankly, I don't know exactly where this story will take me. I didn't know when I started it, and I still don't know now. But where it goes, I will write...and in doing so, I will grow and learn. Join me on the journey...just remember, I don't have a map...

Hermione curled up in bed and waited for Arthur. She had teased him deftly after the revelations of his past, and he had whispered to her that she needed to be careful, since curiosity is not good for cats. Her response – that it was a good thing she was a witch – had been met with only a raised eyebrow and a challenging little smile. He had been surprisingly relaxed after the pictures and the two boxes had been revealed. 

_As the evening wore on, the games were switched and set aside in favour of relaxed conversations with friends and family. Arthur and Lucius, despite their earlier embarrassment, were unaffected by the occasional teasing or commentary from those gathered._

_“You're taking this well,” Harry murmured to Hermione as Charlie told a rather entertaining tale about a dragon that had taken a kitten as a pet._

_“What good would it do to have fits? Besides, I'm no angel.”_

_“You're hardly one who's bedded entire Quidditch teams, though.”_

_“No,” she said slowly, “but does it really matter, what happened then? We all know he was devoted to Molly, that he has been a good father and husband. Why would his one-night witches matter any more than yours do?”_

_“I didn't let in a photographer,” Harry said dryly._

_“Right. And the pictures of your backside that were published in_ Witch Weekly _on the one-year anniversary celebration were completely fabricated. The witch was simply a figment of the Wizarding world's collective imagination. And the fact that the motion--”_

 _“All right. You win. So there is_ some _photographic evidence out there.”_

_“Yes, but Arthur's is entirely under his own control. Can you say the same?” Harry didn't answer, so she continued. “You know I didn't go looking for this, right? With him? It just happened, and...I'm happy, Harry. Happier than I thought I could be in relationship.”_

_“So it is a relationship, then, not just knocking boots?”_

_“Knocking boots? Really? That's all you've got to say?”_

_“Convenient sex, then. Something to get his mind off of – “_

_“Off losing Molly? No. There's more to it.” She hesitated briefly, then murmured, so low that Harry could barely make out her words, “I think this could last a very long time. He wants_ me, _Harry, flaws and all.” She breathed. “And I want him.”_

_“Flaws and all?” Harry whispered back, eyes intense as he stared into her eyes._

_“Yes.” After a long moment, Harry simply nodded and relaxed his gaze. Hermione never would know what he was looking for while he held her gaze like that, but whatever it was, he must have found it._

_When it was time for farewells, Arthur and Hermione left when Lucius and Narcissa did, both witches having teased their lovers with little things throughout the rest of the evening._

Now, as she waited for Arthur to join her, Hermione wondered if that was the wisest course of action. She knew her lover _as_ a lover: a man inclined to romance and slow lovemaking in the night and, yes, morning; sometimes passionate interludes that used whatever convenient, mostly comfortable, surfaces or supports were available. She did not know him as he had been, a revelling, skirt-chasing, multiple-witch-taking wizard who had apparently had quite the reputation as a both a Curse-Breaker and as a Lothario. Hermione enjoyed her lover. Would she enjoy the man he had been years ago, the one named for a Norse god or an ancient British king? 

Whether or not she could find an answer to that question was immaterial, for Arthur slid into bed behind her and wrapped one arm firmly around her waist and hips. She was wearing her usual cami and sleep shorts; he, however, was wearing only his skin. 

“Wicked little witch,” he murmured in her ear, sliding his hand under her cami and slowly pulling the garment off of her. “Wouldn't just leave well enough alone, would you? You had to play, to tease...tell me, were you simply talking, my dear, or do you plan to follow through?”

“Follow through?” Hermione asked, her voice slightly breathy.

“Do you want to ride the lightning, Hermione?” he growled – _growled!_ – in her ear.

Tongue suddenly frozen, Hermione felt her heartbeat speed up. A shiver ran down her spine and something, some perverse, wicked, wanton, whorish little bit of her took over. She nodded.

“I can't hear you, love.”

“Yes,” she whispered, somehow. 

Hermione knew her lover, yes, but she only knew of him what he had revealed to her. Tonight, she had learned more, at least in the abstract. Now, she wanted to _know_ her lover. She wanted to be...whatever it was he wanted. _They_ wanted. 

“So glad you agree,” he murmured. Lips tasted her earlobe as she shivered again. Hands not her her own slid her sleep shorts and knickers off her legs. Hot male skin pressed against her back, his hands pulling her out of her usual side-curl position and back against him, firm and tight. She started to turn, but he stopped her, his hands and his magic? Already? His magic holding her as his hands worked over her torso and slipped between her thighs. 

“Hold still, sweet witch,” he hissed to her as he deftly teased her sensitive skin, making her whimper. He had plans for them, plans that would make her beg and scream out her ecstasy – and he knew exactly how far he wanted to take her. He would thoroughly enjoy taking his witch for a ride – a ride she would enjoy just as much, if not more, than he would. He was going to be doing all the heavy lifting, after all. “That's it.”

Hermione consciously stilled all movement as his lips worked down her neck, his hands teased her nipples more than usual, the emotional satisfaction and magic of their usual lovemaking starkly absent now. This was more like the magic-less sex she had had before, though Arthur's magic was effectively pinning her in place, keeping her from so much as twitching her hips when his left hand dipped into her cleft and teased the bundle of swollen nerves that she hadn't quite been aware was so...needy. Strange, to feel his magic and his body without the emotional depth she had become so familiar with, but it wasn't – _they_ weren't – emotionless. Every whispered word he said carried something wicked and wanton, yes, but it also carried something more. What, she didn't know, not yet, not now. She did know she wanted: this man, this moment, this experience.

It wasn't long before she was whispering to him, “Please, Arthur, I need to feel you, need you,” over and over again. He pushed into her after she'd pleaded for more, waiting until her voice conveyed _need,_ not just want. It was a short wait. She tried to move again, to so-helpfully spread her legs, but he kept her still and tight on her side, making his penetration and angle such that he couldn't fill her deep and sure – the way he usually did – but instead dragged the end of him over and over that sweet, cruel spot inside her and brought her faster without her magic responding than she had ever believed possible. That wicked, perverse, whorish little part of her exulted with this new experience. The rest of her agreed with it wholeheartedly.

Hermione was shaking as she drew closer and closer, her own magic somehow locked inside her, willingly trapped by not being able to move, to do _anything_ but take what he was giving her – not much and too much and _dammit_ she couldn't think for the _need_ that ran all through her like an electric current – until she was there, at that moment, and her body locked –

\--he pulled out of her and held her still while she cried out and shook, empty and aching –

\--and he began again, that teasing depth, the fast rhythm--

\--she responded with a moan, she was too sensitive, and then by feeling everything in her ramping up again, willingly, _unabashedly_ helpless in the face of _this_ lover – 

\--he pulled out of her as she shattered again, empty and needy – 

\--and began again, shallow and fast –

\--and stopping as she fell apart –

\--until she _was_ able to move, even under his magic and his arms.

She turned to face him, body tired and lungs on fire from panting and gasping; magic racing inside her like summer lightning through hot clouds; _needing_...a writhing mass of need and want and pleasure and magic.

Arthur rose over her then, eyes bright and fierce as she opened her thighs for him and welcomed him with arching back and a bright cry of relief.

 _Finally, finally!_ she was filled by him, deep and sure –

\--and too fast and not hard enough and just perfectly overfull as his magic and his arms wrapped around her – 

\--her hands were pinned over her head as those lips, those lips that gave her such sweet, loving kisses, murmured filthy things in her ear, telling her she was tight and hot and so damned wet, asking her who she belonged to as she answered “Arthur,” then at his wicked laugh, crying out “Thor”– 

\--and he rolled against her and she arched up for more and he gave it to her – 

\--everything inside her building, building, building until she was nothing but a witch made of want and pleasure and something _snapped_ in her chest –

\--she cried out as her magic flashed out of her, not the sweet golden stars of her lovemaking, but bright sheets of white light pulsing in time to the spasms of her body until she was done–

\--then his magic _rolled_ through her from where they were joined to the ends of her hair and the tips of her toes--

\--and she flashed and spasmed again

\--and again his body and magic rolled

\--and again

\--and again

\--until there was nothing left of her but magic and ecstasy

\--and she knew nothing.

***

The first sensation she remembered was the feel of Arthur's breath across her right nipple. The second was his hair teasing and prickling against the left. The third was a deep, pervasive ache in every muscle, every bit of skin, every hair follicle, every bit of her. The fourth was her magic, soft, sparkling gold around her and her lover...whose magic she could still feel rolling through her.

Hermione moaned softly as she felt her hips lift, searching for more. More...what?

More of _him._

Arthur stirred and let his lips ghost over the soft skin of his lover. He moved, almost unconsciously, to fit against her, wrapping his arms around her. Not against her, inside her. Slowly, inexorably, he filled her and felt her shudder under him, her magic responding to the feel of him, of his magic.

Helpless.

She was helpless, and it scared her.

“Arthur?” she whispered, panicked brown eyes staring up, hoping to see his, and this time the gentle blue of her lover, not the fierce blue of the conqueror. He looked down at her – and she breathed out a little sigh of relief. Yes, he was her lover again.

Arthur kissed her gently, closing his eyes against what he had seen. He had frightened her. That hadn't been his intention, and he'd never meant to go so far last night – but once he'd gotten the rhythm of the Cleansing started... It was too old, too deeply engrained in his nerves, his muscles, his spine, his magic. He had poured all of his magic through her, drawing all of hers out through purely physical climaxes that had slowly worn away at the barriers between the physical and magical selves until she spent her magic, letting him purge all of his magic, all of the negative energies that had built up in his magic and his body over time. Old self-preservation skills, the kind he would have taken two or three witches to bed to practice, had all come out with this one, loving, giving witch who had known nothing of what could have – and what did – happen.

“I scared you,” he whispered, his body still not done with the purge. He moved gently inside her now, but his magic moved, too, and the dual sensation was too much for his witch. She fell apart in his arms again, her magic shimmering and flowing around them, a pale-gold nimbus in the darkness before dawn. “I'm sorry.” She didn't hear him. When she came back to him, he was still moving slowly inside her, working her still.

Hermione looked up at her lover, dazed and riding high from the pleasure he seemed to be forcing through her – not forcing, because she enjoyed it, but she needed to think, and she couldn't like this – and the inevitable mis-wiring between thoughts and mouths that comes after orgasm made her say, “So am I one of them now?” Her voice wasn't bitter, angry, or resentful – it was empty.

He paused, looked down at her, confused. “One of them?” he managed. He had been so close...

“A one-night witch,” she replied, voice still empty.

She shouldn't have been surprised, really, at the look in his eyes then. Shock. Pain. Horror. _Tears._

 _“No,”_ he breathed, arms wrapping so tightly around her she couldn't breathe. “Oh, God. Oh, Merlin, Hermione, I'm sorry. I'm sorry... I'm sorry...” He murmured into her neck for a long time, his body locked against hers, their magic still and exposed around them.

“Love me, Arthur,” she whispered, tears in her voice and falling down into the hair at her temples. “Just love me.”

“Yes, sweet witch,” he murmured, kissing her neck, then lifting his head to look in her eyes. She could see the tracks of his tears, the red of his eyes. “I love you.” He kissed her, then buried his face in her neck again. “I'm sorry, Hermione. I can't...can't hold back...” His hips began to move again as his magic pushed to finish the purge. “I'm sorry...”

“Shhh,” she shushed him. “Just love me...love me... _oh, love me, Arthur! Arthur!_ ”

This time, as she came apart, her magic sparkled and shimmered around them and he ground into her, his voice a hoarse shout as his magic rolled through her one last time...and then they were still.

Arthur lifted his head slowly and felt her body shaking under him, the rhythm of silent sobs.

“Hermione? Love?”

“D-d-don't l-let g-g-go. P-pl-please...”

“Never.”

He held her tightly as she cried out her pleasure and her fear, the guilt of a man who knew better swelling inside him. 

He knew better, but it hadn't mattered.

Somehow, he stifled his own sobs at the knowledge he was going to lose this witch. She was going to leave him after this. 

For the life of him, he knew he couldn't ask her to stay.

Arthur turned on his back, his witch – while she was still his witch – safe in his arms, for what he was sure would be the last time.

***

Morning sunlight found Hermione sprawled on top of Arthur, every muscle aching with the kind of sweet pain that only comes from overindulging in pleasure. She had never felt anything so terrifyingly powerful, so sweetly pleasurable. She'd never known she could be reduced to magic and nerve-endings, both being rolled by unending ecstasy.

 _If Harry ever lets go enough to be_ Just Harry _in bed, that's what he'd feel like,_ she thought, equating the power of the night with the most powerful wizard she thought she knew. 

Arthur was strong – a wizard couldn't be weak to do what he'd managed with the Burrow and his job, much less surviving Nagini's bite and continuing to fight – but she'd never thought about what that meant. Not really. She was used to the exposed power of her friends, but she knew they packed it away for the general public, even their wives. She was used to her own power, which felt much different than Arthur's. Her power was electric, with a _snap_ and _spark_ to it that made it bite and hiss. Arthur's power was more like, yes, thunder. Something deep and sure and inescapable. It had more than just a sense of power to it. It had weight, pressure. 

Something told her that Arthur was awake. He was too still. He was never really still when he slept. His hands would move over her body, just little caresses, like he was reassuring himself that she hadn't disappeared while he slept. She lifted her head. Smiled.

“Good morning,” she murmured, lifting enough to brush a kiss across his lips.

“Good morning,” he rumbled in reply, his voice morning-rough, but not sleepy. He hadn't slept.

Hermione pushed up enough to look at him, her eyes tracking the small stress lines around his eyes – deeper this morning – and mouth – too thin, but why?

“What's wrong, love?” she asked, smoothing her hand over his chest, feeling the crisp hair sliding under her palm and between her fingers.

“What?” he asked, completely confused.

“You seem...tense. What's wrong?”

In reply, Arthur just closed his eyes and shook his head, arms wrapping tight around his witch. 

Hermione didn't understand, but let him just hold her, deciding she would take this up with him again later, after a shower and caffeine. Showers and caffeine would definitely make whatever was wrong at least something that could be codified and discussed, if not fixed.

***

In the kitchen, Arthur was unusually quiet. He was a quiet man, truly, even in his hell-raising days, he had tended to quiet more than boisterous antics, but this quiet was unnerving Hermione.

Hermione, being Hermione, was not put off by a night of unusually good, unusually powerful, unusually magical sex. Instead, she felt energized and freshened by it, if still achy, even after a shower.

“What in the name of Merlin's left testicle is bothering you?” she said, thoroughly out of patience with Arthur.

He looked at her blinked, and asked, without thinking, “What _is_ the name of Merlin's left testicle?”

“Quinnerius.”

“Ah.”

They were silent for a minute, then Arthur chuckled. “The name of Merlin's left testicle is Quinnerius?”

“Obscure historical fact. The right one was Canute.” Her lips twitched. They laughed together for a minute, and then Hermione put her hand over his. “Arthur, talk to me.”

“I...I'm sorry,” he murmured, looking down, then at her. “I used you last night, Hermione – “

“No,” she interrupted. “That is not – “

“Let me finish,” he said, turning his hand under hers and gripping it just tightly enough to get her to quiet. “I had intended to tease you, to be, perhaps a little rougher, a little _more_ than...” Why was it that some things were so hard to say in the light of day? “A little more of the man I used to be.” That phrasing was better. It worked. “But I hadn't intended to start the Cleansing, and once that particular ritual is started, it doesn't stop until it's done.”

“The Cleansing?”

“An old Curse-Breaker's trick. The danger isn't just in the curses that are broken, it's also in the negative energy and magic that is absorbed over time and exposure to cursed objects and places. If a Breaker doesn't purge on a regular basis, he becomes vulnerable – even moreso, if it's a pair. There are two ways to complete the Cleansing, one through spending all magical energy in something that is positive and filled with the intention, if not the act, of creation – sex – or the spending of the negative energy through the release of pain – a ritual whipping.” He saw her blink in surprise. “And yes, there have been many times that Lucius and I assisted one another with the Cleansing that way, though not as many as when we decided it was better to go off chasing witches who wanted to be caught. Usually, the Cleansing of Pain was used when we were too far from a good place to find witches or the area was too unpredictable about foreign wizards with local witches.” 

“So why do you insist that doing this Cleansing with me was using me?”

“Because I've never, ever had only one witch in bed to complete it.” Hermione gaped at him and he continued, not even blushing. “The only times I've completed the Cleansing with witches, there were at least two in my bed, and they knew what to expect. Most people know about Quidditch groupies, but there are witches who won't take any wizard to their bed unless he's a Curse-Breaker, because of things like the Cleansing.” 

“Curse-Breaker groupies?” she sounded skeptical.

“Yes.” At her continued incredulity, he decided to make his point a little more clearly. He stood up, pulled her to her feet. Instead of saying anything else, he slid his arms around her, pulled her up onto her toes, flush against him, and bent to kiss her. 

Hermione moaned into the kiss, her magic surging up to swirl around them, her body singing with renewed need. As he deepened the kiss, need turned to a shivering pulse, then to a spiraling whirl of pleasure, then to cries that escaped her lips only to be swallowed by him as her body shook and shuddered. He pulled back from the kiss, saw the glazed, dazed look in her eyes, and smiled. Hermione stared up at him, uncomprehending, then: 

“Oh. Yes. I see now.” 

Letting his arms relax, he found that she had no support left in her knees, so Arthur pulled her into his lap as he sat back in his chair. 

“It's addictive,” he murmured, voice low and soft, an edge of magic riding the sound. 

“Is that...normal?” Hermione managed, referring to her response to him.

“It can become normal. We'd have to perform the Cleansing ritual three or four times in the same week – consecutive days – but it can warp a witch's magic to respond to a touch, or even the sound of a Breaker's voice.” His arms were warm and firm around her. He wasn't holding her tightly, knowing that if she decided to get up and flee, he would have to let her go. “As it is, your magic will be easy for me to pull out of you, to...stroke for several more hours, if not the next day or so.”

“Oh.” Hermione leaned against him, relaxing. “I trust you, Arthur. I know you won't do that to me; you wouldn't, even if I asked you to.” 

Arthur was gobsmacked. He managed to rasp out the only two words that came to mind coherently: “Thank you,” while his thoughts ran in too many circles at once. She trusted him? Even after he frightened her so badly the night before? Did she remember? Did she need to? Should he remind her of what had happened, what she had asked – 

“I'm not a submissive witch, Arthur, but I do like a strong wizard – no, I'll be honest, a _dominant_ wizard in my bed.” She turned to straddle his legs, easier to see him, to look into his eyes. “That doesn't mean I want to be dominated, that I'll be an obedient little pet. I don't particularly enjoy those games, not past a certain point.” A ginger eyebrow raised. “I've played the games, and I'll play a few of them again. That's not the point. I _don't_ like to make the decisions in bed most of the time, and I _do_ like to feel a man's strength, no matter what position we end up in. I'll take control when I want it, but I don't need it. I don't need to be controlled, either...” She was losing track of what she was saying. “I _like_ that you take the initiative. I've been the aggressor most of the time before, and I got so damned tired of it... and I don't have to do that with you. I'm not afraid of _not_ making a move, and I'm not afraid of _you_ making a move.

“Yes, I was frightened last night. I remember that. But I wasn't scared of _you._ ” She took a breath. Time to say something that would probably surprise him even more. “Before you, I never felt...magic during sex. It was always just physical. Sometimes emotional, but never _magical._ You know I like a certain amount of control over my environment,” his lips twitched up as he recalled no few lectures about why she had things arranged a certain way, “and that extends to control over myself. I take pleasure in bed because I _want_ to take it. I _want_ to let go, to feel something roll over me and leave me breathless. 

“With you, I've touched the magic in bed, and I couldn't control it. It was mine, part of me, and it was utterly outside of my control. I finally understood what it meant to be magical – not just that there were spells and things I could do and see, but that it was so much a part of me that...” She stopped, not sure how to say what she meant. 

“I understand. I've had Muggle sex before – “

“Muggle sex? Wait...that's the term for sex without magic getting involved?” She couldn't help the grin that tugged at her lips from forming.

“Yes. Physical, not magical, and rather nice...but not _magic_.”

“Right.” She felt the smile fade and picked up what was left of her train of thought. “And last night...I learned that there were different degrees of magical sex. Everything we'd done up through last night, well, it's wonderful. Amazing.” She looked into his eyes, so he'd know she wasn't trying to exaggerate for his ego's sake – not that she would. She was a bit _too_ honest about some things, or so her boys had told her. “But it wasn't that kind of... I don't even know what to call it.”

“The groupies called it riding the lightning,” he murmured.

Hermione tried to think, to remember – but there was too much sensation that crowded her mind to access the memories. “Yes... That will work.” A memory came through, “Because _you_ were the thunder...I could feel your magic rolling through me, like the sound waves from a thunderclap.” She looked back at him. “I remember that you loved me afterward, Arthur. It wasn't just the Cleansing. You _loved_ me.”

“I _do_ love you,” he murmured. 

“I love you, too.” Hermione pressed against him as his arms wrapped around her and held her so closely that she could barely breathe – and she didn't care.

“I was afraid you were going to leave me, witch,” he said into her hair. When she pushed back a bit, he only held her tighter. “Terrified that I had destroyed this...”

“No,” she whispered. “No. I'm stronger than that. _We're_ stronger than that...”

“Yes.” 

They said nothing more. It was a long time before they moved from that tight embrace in the kitchen.

***

They were getting ready to go over to Malfoy Manor when Arthur pulled Hermione into his arms. 

“What is it?” she asked, recognizing the look on his face as one similar to that morning.

“Last night, you asked me if you were a one-night witch now. Do you remember that?”

“No.” Hermione blinked several times. 

“I do. You are the furthest thing from a one-night witch as it is possible to get. Do you understand me?” His voice held that edge of magic that she could still feel drawing on hers.

“Y-yes, Arthur.” His intensity was unnerving her. His magic was calling to her. She _needed_ it. “Kiss me,” she breathed.

“What?”

“Kiss me, Arthur.” She tip-toed, nipped his chin. _“Thor.”_

Just before his lips crushed against hers, forcing her mouth wide and wicked, she heard him groan from want. He knew what she was asking, knew what she wanted to feel again. He gave it to her.

Just before he pulled her magic out of her and sent her spinning with a kiss, Hermione couldn't help but think how _glad_ she was that Arthur had such a colourful past.

***

“Oh, damn,” Hermione said, looking at the bag she had brought with her. “I left the music in my other bag.”

“Beel can get eet,” Fleur said, holding Giles on her hip while he gummed at his sippy cup. “'E is running 'ome to peeck up ze furry _pour_ Dominique. She forgot eet and weel not settle wizout eet.”

“Well, if he doesn't mind popping by my flat, the bag is on my bed. I cannot _believe_ I forgot it...” 

Later, when she stopped to think about it, she'd realize exactly _why_ she forgot it and mentally apologize to Fleur for saying the proper and unthinking thing. Of course, later, well, she wouldn't feel guilty at all. Having Bill pop in to the flat and pick up the bag of Muggle music that she had packed for the dance night at the Manor – Narcissa had opened up the ballroom and invited some other friends over to enjoy a “Muggle-style” club atmosphere and they were going to arrive within the next half-hour or so – served another purpose. A purpose that had entirely slipped her mind.

Less than five minutes later, a dazed Bill handed Hermione a simple messenger's bag. He watched her dig into it for a minute, pulling out handfuls of Muggle records, and murmured, “You win.”

“What?” she asked, confused enough to stop and look up at him.

“You win. I'll stop teasing you.”

“About what?” Hermione asked, still not quite getting the gist of it.

He stared at her and pointed to his nose.

“Oh.” Her eyes went wide. “OH!”

Hermione blushed.

“I'd laugh,” Bill said, his voice almost a whimper, “but I've got to go clear my head.” He walked to the French doors and exited into the gardens.

Even though she was surprised enough to blush, Hermione couldn't help feeling a little bit vindicated. Finally, the teasing looks and not-so-subtle 'rub the side of the nose to indicate a satisfied witch' would stop. 

She also couldn't help but notice that, in order to clear his head, Bill evidently needed the assistance of his wife.


	6. When Volunteering Might Not Be Such a Grand Idea

When Volunteering Might Not Be Such a Grand Idea

Hermione held the bottle to Frederick's lips, and the little brat protested because it wasn't his mother's nipple. Hermione was _not_ about to offer her own as a replacement, though the lactation spell was quite easy to perform. Sophie could feed her own brat, and Hermione was not a milk-cow, dammit.

She might, however, be insane.

Thursday of Muggle Appreciation Week, she had agreed to keep the kids while the parents enjoyed a day sightseeing in Muggle London, riding the Eye, visiting Muggle museums, the Tower, and so on. Arthur, the Malfoys, the Weasley families, and the Potters were all wandering around London while Hermione was crammed into her flat with Victoire, Dominique, Louis, Guy, Giles, Sirius James, Albus Severus, Lily, Hugo, Rose, Wendy (George's daughter), Frederick (Charlie's sprog), and a dearth of patience.

“Dominique, stop throwing crumbs at Victoire; Victoire, eat your carrots. James and Louis, stop spluttering at each other, it's rude and you're making a mess of the carpet...”

 _Oh, why won't you just take the fucking bottle?_ she didn't shriek at Frederick – Rose had slurped down her milk and was currently gurgling happily in her bassinet, preparing to nap after she rediscovered her feet – but she wanted to. 

A flick of her wand stopped the spread of milk from Giles' now-lidless sippy cup, cleaned up the spill, and, after a moment's thought, another flick sterilized the milk and returned it to the cup because damned if she was going to contact Fleur for a newly pumped batch. Besides, a little lint wouldn't hurt him...not that _her_ filtering spell missed any lint. 

Desperation drove her to it. Frederick was finally starting to snerk and suck at the bottle, so she decided to keep the chaos of lunch down just a bit and turn on the television. An old show she had loved as a child was in syndication, so she turned it on and let it play, the people in the box enthralling the children and distracting them enough to put food in their mouths and chew and swallow. Perhaps it was called an idiot box for a reason, but it was also called, at the moment, Hermione's best friend.

And she only had seven more hours to go.

She didn't cry.

She might have sniffled.

*** 

“How were they?” Lavender asked, cuddling her sleeping Rose and kissing her sleepy Hugo, a sweet child (when he wasn't playing 'annoy the hell out of Victoire and Dominique' with James and Louis) who was snuggling into his father's arms. 

__

__

“Other than the usual antics with Bill's girls, they were fine.” She didn't mention the use of markers on the walls, the attempt to escape from the warded balcony, Hugo's dash down the hall at three p.m. after Arthur had had a bouquet of roses and lilacs sent up to her – not the usual arrangement, to be sure, but she loved the contrast of red and purple, and he'd remembered – chasing the flower delivery man to ask about getting a bunch of Lavender's namesake flowers for his mother. 

“Good,” Ron said, reading Hermione's eyes better than Lavender did. There was more to it, but now was not the time. He'd find out later, then sit down and work out a plan with Lavender. “You seem to have held up well.”

“Oh, it wasn't bad,” _I'd almost rather be under the Cruciatus again,_ “but it was chaotic. You know how much I like things organized and tidy...”

Ron grinned. Oh, he was going to hear about this in great detail later. He looked forward to it.

“Thanks, love,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Give Aunt Hermione kisses, Hugo.”

Hermione accepted with affection and grace the sloppy, wet little boy kiss and returned it with a neat, concise kiss of her own and a loud, “Mwah! Love you, Hugo.”

“Wuv you, Aunt Hermynee. G'nites.”

“Thank you, so much,” Lavender repeated after exchanging kisses with Hermione, letting her kiss Rose goodbye. “We had such a wonderful time.”

Hermione smiled, “You know I enjoy watching them.” And she did – in smaller doses of fewer children – but she did enjoy watching them. Hugo was just getting to the age where he was truly fascinating and fascinated by little things, and Rose was just so cuddly. She did not, however, immediately volunteer to 'do it again, anytime!'

Lavender wasn't listening, and the look Hermione saw her give Ron – the look he returned – told her that this day out had done them much good as a couple, reminding them of one another on a plane that didn't involve the kids. 

Hermione shut the door behind them, looked at the sprawled out forms of Victoire, Dominique, and Wendy on the couch, Louis on the arm chair, Giles on his pallet beside the couch because he didn't like to let Dominique out of reach, Frederick and Lily in their respective bassinets, and James and Albus curled around one another like puppies on the other (slightly enlarged) chair, and sighed. Two down, too many to go. At least they were all asleep.

Sophie and Charlie arrived next, coming in quietly, a slightly goofy grin on Sophie's face that told her they had paused somewhere for a quickie between the restaurant and picking up Frederick. Charlie didn't have that same grin, but he did have that sparkle in his eye that, for the past few months, had been replaced by stress and no little bit of worry. 

“Mm, so are the bobbies going to come knocking?” Hermione teased.

“Nah. They tipped us,” Sophie replied, grinning wickedly. Charlie grinned at that, and winked at Hermione. “It's been over two months, Hermione. Give a witch a break.”

“I reckon you got quite more than a break,” Hermione murmured.

“Considerably more,” Charlie said, a little too smugly.

“I don't want to know, really.” But she would hear about it later, in great detail, because Sophie believed in the power of description. She'd once described her wedding night with Charlie so well that Hermione could have sworn that, not only was she there, but she'd enjoyed the dragonkeeper, too. Thankfully, that was nearly two years ago, and Sophie's attention had been quite overtaken with her baby boy.

“How was he?” Sophie asked, scooping up her baby carefully and nuzzling at his neck. Frederick screwed up his face and flailed his arms once or twice, but didn't wake.

“He hates bottles,” Hermione reported, “but he eventually drank out of them.”

“You didn't decide to take care of it?” Charlie teased. It wasn't unusual for a witch to nurse a child that was under her care, even if she had to use the lactation charm.

Hermione gave him a black look. “There are some things these tits are not going to do anytime soon, Charlie Weasley.”

“Oh?” came the curious voice of Harry Potter.

“Like what?” chimed in Harry Potter's red-headed wife.

“Nurse babies.” Hermione shook her head. “No. Not happening.”

“Oh, but it's a wonderful experience,” Ginny gushed.

Hermione just gave her a look that said _I am not a fucking cow._ Ginny smirked back and raised her eyebrow in clear rebuttal, but Hermione said nothing.

“I know that look,” Harry said, laughing softly. He walked over to pick up Albus, the fussier of the two who preferred his father's arms when he was asleep, and kissed Hermione on the cheek as he passed. He walked back with Albus in his arms and a mostly-asleep James sleepwalking under his hand, and, drawing even with his friend, whispered, “It's the tits-are-toys-not-food look.”

“Precisely,” she murmured back. In a normal tone, she continued. “I'd suggest letting Frederick have at least one bottle a day. When he figured out he could hold it and control it, he did better, but that wasn't until the late afternoon feeding.”

Charlie nodded. “Makes sense. Control over something makes it easier to accept for the dragons, too.”

“Your son is not a dragon, Charlie,” Sophie sighed.

“No, but he is a magical creature – everything seems to indicate he's magical, anyway.” 

The conversation, apparently one that was already familiar and old between the couple, continued through farewells and kisses, out into the hallway to the Floo station at the end of the hall. Hermione's fireplace wasn't used because the noise of Floo travel was loud, at least initially, and no one wanted to risk waking the babies.

A flick of wands had Harry's kids' bags, packed and ready for them by Hermione, in adult hands. Ginny cradled Lily carefully in her arms, looking down at her only red-haired child. Whether her eyes would be green like her father's, no one knew. So far, James had grey eyes – a legacy from a double-dose of Black ancestry – and Albus Severus had dark brown eyes which threatened to turn even darker, perhaps a gift from his black-haired namesake or some distant, Spanish or French ancestor.

“Thank you, Hermione,” Ginny said, smiling up at her friend. “For everything.” 

Hermione hugged her friend, kissed her cheek and the baby's and whispered, “Just remember what I told you – he's still not sure he's wanted, not all the time. And he loves you, Gin. So much.”

“I know.”

Hermione turned to Harry and got a big hug and kisses from his sons and from him, along with an intense look that conveyed so much to her that she didn't even process it consciously. It was everything from _thank you_ to _I love you_ to _whatever you need from me_ and a hundred other, lesser things, too.

She kissed his cheek and the Potters left, and Hermione was down to five sleeping children and a messy flat.

“George had to pop by the shop,” Angelina said by way of greeting. “How was our Wendy?”

“Sweet as ever, and she gets along well with Bill's girls, which surprised me, given how much older they are.”

“Oh, they dress her up like their dolly at home,” Angelina said, grinning. “They tell her she's as pretty as they are, and she just preens like a little Veela. She is pretty, too.” Wendy was a very pretty little girl, but she was not a Veela. Fleur's girls loved her, though, since she was the only other girl in the cousins that was old enough to play. With Victoire and Dominique around, Wendy would learn very well how to be pretty, and also how not to be obnoxious about it.

Angelina picked up her daughter casually, the girl so used to loud noises and random shudderings of her room over the shop that she didn't stir at her mother's levering her up and into her arms.

“She sleeps so hard,” Hermione murmured.

“She knows she's safe,” Angelina replied, smiling. “She's safe here, she's safe in the flat over the shop, and she's safe with mum and dad and her uncles, aunts, and Grandfa. When she feels safe, she sleeps well.”

“She was wonderful today,” and she had been. Wendy, for all her father's mischief and her mother's spirit, was an easy-going girl, and prone to quiet explorations of her environment instead of chaos. Then again, she got regular doses of chaos at home, with George Weasley as her father.

“Good.” Angelina let Hermione kiss the sleeping witchling, then bussed her cheek. “G'night. And thank you.”

“How's he doing?” Everyone worried about George, and Hermione was no exception. She rarely got a chance to ask his wife and partner because he was so often near her. The battle for sanity and normalcy was far from over for George, though he was not nearly as depressed as he had been.

“Today helped, especially with the holidays coming on. He got some information about Guy Fawkes Day, and he's planning to do something with it for next year.”

“That was earlier in the month, though,” Hermione murmured, thinking back to the old celebrations they'd had at primary school.

“And that matters how?” Angelina asked, laughing.

Hermione nodded and laughed. “True.” 

“He's gotten less...not, hmm, clingy. Less needy.” Angelina smiled down at her daughter. “And we're thinking of having another, soon. Wendy's been such a blessing, helping him through the worst of it because she's still so small and helpless. He _couldn't_ just keep going the way he was, because his girl needed him.”

“Girl,” Hermione asked, “or girls?” 

Angelina smiled, a bit sadly. “Me, too. We've both gotten better about Fred and Katie being gone. It's been difficult.” The soft pain in her voice told Hermione that her friend's wounds were far from healed. Perhaps that had been one of the things that had kept George with her: they both felt the pain of loss for the same people.

Hermione nodded, knowing that the twins and Angelina and Katie Bell, who had died not long after the Final Battle from incurable wounds sustained in the defence of Hogwarts, had had some sort of special arrangement, but no one knew quite what. Sometimes, Hermione wondered if _they_ had all known. 

“Well, goodnight, then, and if you need me to watch her this weekend, just owl me.”

“Right. Thanks.” Angelina walked to the Floo in the corridor and Hermione looked over the still-sleeping children that, by her count, now only belonged to one couple. 

She looked at the mess in her flat. It was worse than she'd thought. The bodies of sleeping children had camouflaged much of the detritus that came from several small children packed into one, usually spacious, flat. She didn't want to think about the state of her office shelves, the computer keyboard, the mouse, the spare bedroom, or the kitchen floors. Circe's bejeweled tits, she did not want to think about the kitchen floors. Children converged where food was kept, and where children converged, chaos and anti-cleanliness _(And was that a word? Who cares?)_ flourished.

Bill and Fleur walked in, the delicately-boned Veela snuggled into Bill's side like she was part of his clothing. The sheer cockiness of Bill's walk indicated that he, too, had enjoyed his wife's charms while they were supposed to be coming straight back to pick up the kids. 

“Well,” she said, indicating the four sleeping children, “there they are. None the worse for wear.”

Bill chuckled. “You look like hell.”

 _“Non,_ Beel, zat is not nice. Zough...were zey too 'ard on you, 'Ermione? Zese four can make ze insanity quite well. With ze others, zough, well,” Fleur stopped, out of words, her eyes not _quite_ as sharp as usual. The sentiment was well-understood. With the others, Victoire and Dominique reigned as little queens, with all the mischief and good-natured naughtiness of children under six. It didn't help that they were already fluent in French and Veeliuri, the language unique to the Veela clans. They could plan their manouevres in three languages, only two of which Hermione spoke. Veeliuri was not taught to females of any other species, and few males. Bill would most certainly have learned, if only the words most used in bed by a passionate and demanding Veela lover.

“Mm, there was plenty of mischief, but they were good.” _Mostly. Over half the time. Maybe._ “They're exhausted, though, because I just let them play themselves out this afternoon. They ran and jumped – I had an obstacle course through the entire house...there's part of it.” She motioned to a pile of small pillows that she had enlarged to make squishy, soft, energy-sucking spots to crawl over here and there throughout the flat. Yes, it was Muggle Appreciation Week, but it was also a typical November afternoon and she was cooped up with nearly ten small children, all under the age of reason. She forgave herself readily.

Bill kissed her cheek and went to collect his daughters, who loved snuggling into his arms when they were asleep. There was something about the Veela attraction to strength that appeared early in their lives, and Bill _loved_ being the focus of all that attention and affection. Fleur lifted Giles and Guy easily, but knew her independent Louis would want to sleep-walk, not be carried like a _girl_ or a _baby._

“You can try to hide it, Hermione,” Bill whispered to her as he she kissed his sleeping girls goodnight, “but I know you're lying.”

“Keep your nose to yourself, William,” she replied, grinning at him.

“Quit shoving my nose in it,” he returned, “and I will happily do so.” He flashed her an unrepentant grin. “Though you can be...inspiring.”

Hermione groaned as he kissed her cheek, then Fleur kissed her, she kissed the boys and the last of the crew left. 

'Inspiring,' Bill said. He said he'd quit, but she had known better. She was forever going to be teased by that particular Weasley, and she didn't really mind. She could always threaten details about her sex life if he went too far. Of course, Fleur had looked quite _vague_ all week, in that happily-shagged-witch way, so perhaps she'd only end up inspiring the Veela, too. 

Lovely. Hermione inspired lust in a couple with only two to go before they had their own Quidditch team. With her luck, they'd be the ones to spring for the reserves, too.

The mess hadn't spontaneously moved after the last family left _(Good, nothing's been accidentally magicked by the kids or spontaneously given life today),_ and the door opened one last time to let Arthur in. 

“So, everybody's cleared out. I saw them off at the Floo,” he said softly, walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. She leaned back into his arms and sighed. “You're twitching, love,” he said, laughing quietly. “Was it that bad?”

“I don't know – I will _never_ know – how you lot did it. Ever.” She twitched again, only this time, she knew she twitched. Had she been doing that the whole time? “And given what I _know_ about your children...I'm not sure how The Burrow remained standing at all.”

And there was an odd twist. She'd just sent his _grandchildren_ home. He was laughing at her, but she didn't mind, because she was rubbish at being a nanny. The house was a wreck, she was frazzled, and she'd just sent home children – his _grandchildren_ – with his _children_ and their _spouses,_ most of whom were older than she was. It was nearly too much for the moment.

Could she do this? Was she insane to keep on with this man? He was a wonderful man, everything she'd hoped to find – and he didn't want something she couldn't give him. He didn't ask her to be anything other than she was. She didn't have to dress up or do this or that to keep him happy. And yet... He was fifty-seven. Young, for a wizard, to be a grandfather – the father of children old enough to give him _grandchildren._ Bill and he were close enough in age to be siblings by the usual standards. The age difference between her and Arthur was not unusual – several witches her age were married to wizards in their seventies and quite happy. He was strong, healthy, and most Muggles wouldn't put him over forty, unless he was particularly tired or stressed. Magical folk aged well, especially compared to Muggles. 

The children called her “Aunt Hermynee” or “Auntie My-nee,” if they couldn't manage the hushed syllable. He was “Grandfa.” She shook off the odd little twist and looked around the room. 

“What was that sigh for, love?” Arthur asked, looking around. “It's not so bad.”

Hermione winced. No, it wasn't _bad,_ but it wasn't _her flat,_ either. She was tidy. Neat. Organized. This...wasn't. 

“I just don't want to face it in the morning,” she finally said. “And it won't take long to sort out now, especially with magic.” 

Arthur was silent for a long minute. “Shift the wards so the kitchen and office can be cleaned with magic, too. I'll help.”

“You know cleaning charms?” She wasn't sure why she was surprised. Molly was an amazing witch, but not even she could single-handedly keep up with the chaos the twins and Charlie perpetrated on a regular basis. Add in the rest of the brood, wives, and children, and she wondered how much work Arthur had done at The Burrow after spending all day working on hate crimes perpetrated through cursed objects and random anti-Muggle spells.

“I lived alone for a while, minx,” he said, leaning down and nipping her ear. “I learned many things.”

Hermione grinned and closed her eyes, “I'm sure you did.” She lifted her wand and reached for the wards, only to discover she was too damned tired to shift them. She hesitated for a long minute, then whispered a soft spell that Arthur recognized as she sketched his sigil into the wards.

“Hermione?” he breathed, astonished. “You don't have to --”

“It's right, Arthur,” she replied, still leaning against him as she surrendered equal control of the wards to him. “We're right.”

He turned her around in his arms and looked down at her tired brown eyes. 

“I never would have asked, Hermione.” His eyes were calm, clear blue, serious and gentle all at once.

“I know.” She smiled up at him. “That's why I know it's right.”

She was tired, so he lifted her onto her toes and leaned down to kiss her, holding her tightly. His lips were so reverent when they touched hers. She wondered if this was how relics felt when they were kissed by pilgrims seeking blessings and miracles. As she kissed him back, she knew she'd gotten her miracle: This man, this wonderful, generous, loving, very human, flawed man, loved her for herself. There was no greater miracle on Earth than that. 

Unless it was loving him the same way.

***

Hermione and Arthur spent less than half an hour swishing and flicking the flat clean, Arthur taking the more strenuous cleaning spells and letting her tug and twitch things into place, which took considerably less energy.

“There,” she said, flopping down on the sofa with a groan. “God, I am exhausted.”

“Stay here for a minute and rest, love.” He looked at the kitchen and frowned. “Did you eat?”

“Supper? No. I was too busy wrangling children.”

“What about lunch?”

“Um...Good question.”

“Ah.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Just rest a minute, love.” He felt wonderful, had eaten a delicious meal with his children and their spouses – the first adult-only meal he'd had with them in six years – and they had laughed and joked for hours, holding the table longer than strictly necessary. He didn't feel guilty, but he knew that Hermione had given up a lot to take care of all the children, none of whom were really old enough to be trusted with looking after any of the others. Molly and he had lucked out that way – and Bill had always been responsible, Charlie good-natured. Both had kept an eye out for their brothers without being told or asked to do so.

Arthur disappeared into the master bath and then into the kitchen. Hermione was letting the tension of the day seep out of her and into her much loved, much abused sofa when he returned, calling her name and making her open her eyes. When she did, she saw him with his hand out, waiting for her to take it and do...something. 

“Come with me,” he said, smiling at her. “I haven't told you how much I enjoyed the day out with my boys.” Once again, Ginny and the wives were relegated to Arthur's boys – and none of them minded it at all.

“You know I'm happy to do it,” she protested the thanks, though the words did warm her a bit. It was nice to know that one was appreciated. “And you sent me flowers earlier today. You don't have to do anything else.”

“It's not a matter of 'have to,' Hermione,” Arthur said, stopping as they reached the door to the master bathroom. “It's a matter of 'want to.'” Warm, strong hands cupped her face, turned it up so all she could see was him. “I _want_ you to know how much today meant to me, and I want you to understand exactly how much I appreciate everything you've done and everything you mean to me. I love you, Hermione. Please don't doubt that, or think I take it for granted.”

“I don't,” she whispered back, irrationally near tears from his words, which weren't really that romantic, really. There was no sweeping declaration, no poetry, but the _honesty_ of it, _that_ was killing her. “I don't.”

“Good. Now,” he smiled, eyes sparkling, “you're still twitching. Come with me.”

He led her into the bath, where a steaming bath waited for her next to a tray of light, nutritious nibbles meant to tantalize and satisfy all at once. A glass of her favourite red wine was beside the tray, and the water smelled like sandalwood and myrrh. 

Hermione simply stood there, dazed at the sight, as Arthur began to slip her sensible jeans, trainers, and t-shirt off of her, underwear following shortly afterward. He pulled her hair back and pinned it with a charm he'd learned decades before, making it look like one of the Muggle period films, curls all around her face and a high updo holding the mass of it. 

“You enlarged the tub,” she murmured, the only thing that came to mind, but she couldn't think of why.

“An enchantment that was in place and not yet activated,” he affirmed, stepping from behind her. He had removed his own clothing and led her into the bath, stepping in first to steady her and let her sink down on his thighs. “Just lean back and relax,” he murmured, reaching over to levitate the tray and her wine glass. “Let me spoil you a little.”

Hermione was dazed. She hadn't ever done anything like this. The idea was completely foreign to her. Well, not completely, but the experience certainly was. She didn't enjoy shower-sex, and bath sex just seemed a bit unhygenic. Not that sex was hygenic at any time, but in a large tub of still water, well, it just wasn't on. The idea of eating in the tub wasn't in the “to do” bin, either, so this was more than a little outside of her neat, tidy realm of how she liked to do things. Well, eating and bathing things. 

She should be stressed out by the whole thing, given the bath was one of the germiest places in a house, and there was her dinner, floating courtesy of a levitation charm just inches over the water. Her hands were underwater, so she wasn't sure how she was going to – oh. That was how.

Arthur held the bite of bread and brie for her, then the wine glass. She ate the bite and sipped the wine, groaning as the tastes mixed with the heat of the bath and the solidity of the man behind her. She was in a sensual feast, and she knew, protest or not, Arthur was not going to let her slip out early.

She didn't want to.

Heaven help her, this was a completely ridiculous plan that, were she a Muggle she would never even attempt, and as a witch she should have vetoed as over-expenditure of charms for no reason other than cramming too many activities into the same time slot. 

But. 

It wasn't silly, ridiculous, or extreme multi-tasking. It was utterly lovely. Hermione _felt_ loved, wanted, cared for. She _felt_ safe and warm and wanted. She _felt_ everything and she just gave in to it. In to him.

She didn't realize that her shoulders were shaking slightly as her eyes overflowed. 

“What is it, love?” Arthur asked, concerned. 

“I love you, Arthur Leonis Weasley,” she whispered, turning her head to press her cheek into his shoulder. “So much.”

He kissed her shoulder, her ear, her cheek, letting her simply release everything in that moment – the stress of the day, the emotional surprise, the exhaustion, the unexpected sensuality he possessed and treated her to – knowing it wouldn't be long until she was ready simply to relax against him and let him coddle her for a little while. 

In only a few minutes, Hermione had felt the emotional upheaval of Arthur's thank-you pass and she rested against him, not bothering to wipe at her eyes. She let the tears stay on her cheeks, with the steam from the bath. Honesty was so much more important to her than appearances in moments like these, and she was going to be honest for him. With him. She relaxed completely, letting her inner hedonist hold sway over her. Ridiculous for a Muggle, perhaps, but this bath with dinner and man, well, it was damned near perfect.

Arthur dried his hand and lifted another bite for Hermione, who took it from his fingers without trying to avoid them or intentionally teasing him with licks and nibbles. Sips of wine alternated with bites of dinner, and, at some point, she turned to face him, getting kisses between bites and sips of wine, indulging in licking steam-sweat off his neck and shoulders, the scars from a whipping at Hogwarts years before faded white at the top of his shoulder. She pressed kisses to those scars when her dinner was done and the wine was gone – they had share a long glass, one she suspected had been enchanted to stay filled from the bottle until he ended the spell or the bottle went dry. 

After several long kisses, Arthur turned his attention to bathing his lover, smoothing the soap over her body with his hands, rinsing her with handfuls of water slid over her skin by those same hands. He took his time. She was putty in his hands.

Hermione stretched lazily as the water drained from the tub and Arthur helped her stand. She wondered what she was going to get – a drying charm or a warm towel. He surprised her. She was lifted in his arms and he carried her bridal style to the bed, still wet from the bath.

“We'll soak the bed,” she murmured, hardly protesting.

“I should hope,” he replied, laying her down and, instead of moving around to the other side of the bed, coming to rest over her.

“Mm...” she said, thinking that sex would be lovely, if he were going to do all the work...and it seemed like he was willing to do just that. But he surprised her again. Clearly, when Arthur let his sensual side out, he let it _out._ As she waited for the kiss and caress, she received instead soft licks across her shoulders, down her arms, her torso, taking long, slow detours around her breasts and, _oh, God,_ suckling just the way that drove her mad at her nipples...down over her belly, where it didn't tickle but felt like he was setting her on fire with his tongue as he drained her ability to move with his lips. He worked down her thighs, her calves, all the way to her feet, even sucking on her toes (a disgusting thought that, in practice, was quite intoxicating) before working his way slowly back up her legs to her inner thighs. 

He teased her, slowly getting her legs to spread wider for him, dipping his head down and closer to her centre, where she wasn't aching or throbbing, but slow-honey molten. Waiting.

When his lips caressed her bare skin, she gasped. She hadn't shaved, hadn't done _anything_ – but he had. Sometime that evening, in the bath or after, he had whispered an old spell that had gently bared her mons and his lips were touching skin that hadn't been bared for nearly ten years. Not even for a bikini did she remove her curls, but this wizard had. 

Ordinarily, she would have been incensed to the point of throwing him out of their bedroom and onto the couch. Tonight, it was simply another dish in this sensual feast. 

Tongue followed lips, slowly working down off her mons to the hidden pink. 

Without spells or ropes or manacles or threats or anything at all, this wizard had bound her quite effectively in place. With only the touch of his tongue and lips, he captured her, held her more effectively than even _Incarcerous_ could have. 

Tongue circled and curled. Lips teased and caressed and suckled. Teeth nipped and pressed. Tongue soothed and tantalized.

Hermione never saw it coming. She felt the slow tingling, the liquid lightning in her veins, but she never saw her orgasm coming. It _rolled_ through her as Arthur pulled her clit between his lips and tongued it slowly with long strokes. She moaned his name, low and sure. He didn't stop, just soothed her and then continued his slow murder of her preconceptions with his mouth and his good intentions. She didn't see the next one coming, either, as he tortured her through the first and out of it, not letting her come down at all, but stoking her higher. It _shuddered_ down her spine as he slid his tongue deeper inside than she thought anything other than fingers or cock could reach – he licked her _there_ on that spot, and she screamed for him, over and over.

For the first time in her life, Muggle sex was nearly as magical as when his magic wrapped around her and called to hers.

Then he slid up her body, kissed her deeply, and filled her.

Her magic surged out of her, reaching for him, reaching under his skin and sliding into his veins. Arthur's back arched as he cried out at the feel of her, his magic pushing forward into her.

With one stroke, she gave him everything, and he accepted it. His magic wrapped around her, through her, and his body was racked with the pleasure of witch.

Hermione would never know how long she stayed in that moment of ecstasy, but she knew her magic and her body would never be the same. She would always respond to the simplest touch from this man, to the feel of his magic brushing against her skin. Somehow, she had become his.

Peace filled her as she felt her heavy, sweaty wizard go boneless over her, and she wrapped her arms around him.

She was his, but he was hers, just as completely.

All _was_ fair in love, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N* In this fic, Arthur was born in 1946, making him 56/57 in 2003. Hermione is 24. Arthur's middle name is Leonis, the name of a star in the constellation Leo. His mother was a Black, after all. Old habits and all that.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm going to do it. I'm about to beg shamelessly for reviews because this is one story that actually makes me a bit nervous to post. Not because of the writing, but because I can hear the flamethrowers being prepared every time I work on a chapter. 
> 
> Please, please, please reassure me that you're keeping said weapons of toasty destruction reserved for other things? Please? Just with a little review? Pretty please?


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